A Soldier's Honor
by Redeemed
Summary: In the dwindling days of WW2, a famous band of german soldiers find themselves caught in a desperate situation.
1. The Vineyard

**_(Author's Note—Duty, honor, and courage are virtues that adhere to the hearts of all men, whether they be American, British, Russian, or German. This is a story about a band of men, brothers in their own terms, which stand united in a cause. Just like the Allies, there were heroes in the German Army, men who left their wives and children to answer their call of duty. Let this story be a tribute to the voices of many men that have been drowned out by the songs of the victors.)_**

_**A Soldier's Honor**_

**Chapter 1**

_"Verteidigen Sie! Defend!"_

Those were the last words of _Hauptmann_ Jonas Merhoff. A second later, half of his face disappeared in a cloud of crimson blood and tissue. A man who had fought and bled for the Fatherland since the beginning of the war—from the blitzkrieg of Norway in 1940 to the defense of Monte Cassino in 1944—a man who, by normal standards, should have died on a hundred and three separate occasions; this same man became, at long last, another tragic statistic of the war.

Somewhere outside, a grenade exploded into a storm of shrapnel, shaking the whole building.

At first, Leutnant Metz did not react to the _hauptmann_'s collapse. Back pressed against the edge of a window, Metz had his entire attention focused on his MP44, spattering bursts of automatic fire at the enemies outside. The violent recoil of the weapon sent vibrations deep into his bones. Even as the chamber clicked empty, his massive frame continued to tremble.

Metz reached shakily for another clip, casting a weary eye over his men.

It was then that he saw Merhoff, sprawled out on the floor. The _hauptmann_'s face was no longer recognizable, but the Iron Cross still glimmered proudly on his chest. Twenty four battles had done nothing to tarnish the badge of courage on Merhoff's breast.

Metz felt all the fiery energy drain from his body, leaving him nothing but flabby muscles to keep him standing. The clip of ammunition in his hands fell to the floor with a dull clatter.

" Merhoff…" His words were slow and confused, drowned out in the thunderstorm of battle. With a sense of disbelief, he stepped away from the window and knelt beside his old friend. Even in death, spread with arms wide on the dusty floor, _Hauptmann_ Merhoff retained his commanding honor and glory. Metz found himself strengthened simply by gazing at his leader.

" You have earned your peace," he whispered. Very gingerly—oblivious to shouts of pain and the angry rattling of guns all around him—Metz removed the Iron Cross from Merhoff's uniform and placed it securely in his own breast pocket. Somehow it would get back to Merhoff's wife and children.

That much, he promised himself.

XXXXXX

_Gefreiter_ Berlitz watched the somber exchange between his two officers, one dead in flesh and the other dead in spirit. He himself was incapable of any emotion. Adrenalin flushed out grief from his heart and replaced it with a pulsing anger. Cupping both hands around his mouth, he shouted across the room.

" _Leutnant_, get down!"

A hail of deafening bullets smashed into the wall beside Berlitz's head, spraying shreds of wallpaper in his face. He took to the ground, covering his head with both arms, shaking as the staccato of fire swept the area. His ears were filled with the clanging of bullets on metal, exploding vases and pottery, and the splintering cracks of wood being shattered. Tapestries and paintings crashed to the floor, forming a pile of dust and debris. In the corner of the room, an ancient grandfather clock rippled in its frame, hundreds of tiny gears pouring from its new holes like blood from a fresh wound.

When he at last found the strength to look up, he saw Metz lying prone by an overturned table, very much alive. A moment of weakness and vulnerability had seized the _Leutnant_, but now the cunning savageness of war had reassumed possession of Metz. The officer twisted his head towards Berlitz and nodded, affirmatively, confidently, reassuringly.

" We can't stay here!" Metz called to the other five men. " Hilden and Freud, cover this window."

On his hands and knees, he crept over to Berlitz. " Gefreiter, you and I will exit first through the rear of the building. There's a church two streets down from the edge of the city, with a radio in the basement. We've got to find out where the rest of our division has taken up defenses."

" What about our orders? We were to defend this post-"

" To hell with it," Metz said angrily. " Pick up your gun."

Berlitz was insisted. " Leutnant, the _1st Fallschirmjäger_ have never disobeyed-"

Another ferocious bombardment of gunfire broke him off in midsentence. A cacophony of American Browning Automatic Rifles and British Lanchester SMGs raked the room. One caught _Scutze_ Freud in the neck, and the soldier went down in a fountain of blood. Metz immediately dragged himself over to the fallen man, only to arrive in time to hear a final breath escape Freud's lips.

With a sudden fury, Metz sprang up over the edge of a nightstand and unleashed an entire clip into the smoky vineyards outside. His determined, soot-darkened face lit up under the flash of the gun's muzzle. Torso shaking, he held down the trigger without pause. After a seemingly endless round of fire, there came a loud click.

Panting, he dropped back for cover and snapped in fresh rounds. He crawled to Freud's body. There was no shame in rummaging for spare bullets.

" If they throw a grenade, we're finished!" Hilden shouted.

" Then let's not waste any more time," Metz answered. " Berlitz, change of plans. Stay with Hilden and provide covering fire. I'll take the other three and head for the church."

Berlitz no longer argued. " _Ja, _Leutnant."

" Twenty seconds, and you come after us," Metz instructed. He paused, then repeated, " Twenty seconds, do you hear me? No longer."

" _Ja, _get moving," Berlitz urged.

Taking up a spot near the windows with Hilden, _Gefreiter_ Berlitz watched as his companions hustled out of the room, each tossing him one final look. He had fought with all of these men for the better part of four years now, against the French, against the Russians, against the British, against the Americans. In every harrowing encounter they had been through, never once had this core group been forced to split apart. They had kept guard over one another like brothers. Never would they have imagined that it would be like this.

" We'll see you soon," Hilden said to them, grimly.

Without further hesitation, both soldiers focused their concentration on the enemy outside. If Metz and the others were to escape out the back, the Allied soldiers had to be committed elsewhere.

From either side of the fragmented window, they swung out their MP44s and let loose 35 rounds apiece. Each burst of five was spaced out to buy the most time. The chances of making any contact with such blind spraying were slim, but the point was diversion, not destruction.

" Grenade on three," Berlitz said, when their clips had run dry.

Both soldiers simultaneously removed their last stick grenades and triggered the fuses. Nodding three times in beat, they swung into view of the window and launched their potato mashers out into the field. At the same time, a stray bullet clipped Hilden's shoulder. He fell back cursing, " _Scheisse, fickender idiot Amerikaner!_"

In the vineyard, the grenades detonated with resonating booms, and clouds of black soil ballooned ten feet in the air. Someone screamed in pain, a sound quite soothing to Hilden.

" How bad?" Berlitz demanded.

Shrugging, Hilden hoisted his machine gun and said, " Just a scratch. Let's go."

Moving as one, they crossed the rubble of the dilapidated room. They had just barely reached the door when several dull thuds echoed off the floorboards behind them.

There was no need to pause for a visual. Both soldiers dove headfirst into the tiny hallway, scrambling around the corner as the Allied grenades unleashed a hellish blast. The walls saved the two Germans from any direct shrapnel but provided little protection for crumpling beams. A portion of the roof caved in behind Berlitz; his head escaped flattening by less than a foot.

Ears ringing from shell shock, eyes stinging at the cloud of dust around him, Berlitz staggered to his feet and grabbed at his friend. He helped Hilden get up, wincing in pain at a sudden agony in his knee. They hobbled down the hall, choking on the air. When they reached the back door, they stopped on the inside fringes and gazed out uncertainly.

Berlitz stared at Hilden, who met his gaze with a wry smile and a cock of his head.

Wordlessly, guns held at ready, the two soldiers stumbled into the fresh air of Italy.


	2. A Desperate Retreat

**Chapter 2**

When the fifteen men under _Hauptmann _Merhoff had been assigned the defense of the _Castillo_ vineyard, directly on the eastern edge of town, they had made sure that there was a suitable method of falling back to the city of Florence. They had taken up positions in the villa overlooking the wide orchard terrain. Merhoff had then established the ditch to the rear of the house as a retreat route. Relatively deep, the channel extended approximately a quarter of a mile into the back wall of a private home. That home then let out onto the narrow, winding streets of the Italian city.

Merhoff had sworn, on the night that they had retreated from Monte Cassino, that the Allies would pay dearly for every inch of land they took. And so _1st Fallschirmjäger_ had joined together with soldiers of the legendary _Hermann Goring Panzerkorp_ to create a stubborn defensive line across Italy. The Allies pushed fervently, and by the time they had taken Rome on June 4, a sea of Russian, American, British, and Polish soldiers had littered the hillsides.

Merhoff had made true his word.

Just the day before yesterday, on August 10th, Merhoff had told his men that the Germans were preparing for a full-scale retreat to the Gustav Line. The defenses of the Arno River were crumpling, which meant that Florence would fall to enemy hands. However, nothing was to come cheaply. A few select German groups were left to sabotage efforts of crossing the Arno, and that included wiping out several key points in the river-side city of Florence.

XXXXXX

Now, the _Hauptmann's _words echoed in _Gefreiter _Berlitz's head. _" They will wish they never stepped onto Italy_. _We will die before we let the animals enter our beloved homeland. Stop them here, men. Stop them now, in Florence._"

Merhoff was dead, along with six of the most courageous soldiers Berlitz had ever met. And while those men were stepping through the archway of heaven, he was about to step through the doorway to hell.

Spotting no immediate opposition in the back property of the villa, Berlitz and Hilden set their target for a large ditch ten meters ahead.

No sooner had they stepped out of the house when the muzzle flash of gunfire erupted to their far left. Whining and hissing pelts of air sent them into a floundering dash for safety. Berlitz took the lead, his enflamed knee crying out in agony with each step. Adrenaline became his morphine; he ignored the pain long enough to roll into the protection of the channel.

Hilden hit the ground beside him, breathing hard.

The streamline of automatic fire hissed across the top of the ditch. Looking up three feet, Berlitz almost swore that he could see the fiery flicks of bullets cutting over their position. He nudged Hilden forward.

It was now that they had to make some distance, before the other Allied soldiers could be summoned.

Crawling on his hands, Berlitz had to bite back the torture of his injured knee. He wondered if he had torn or ripped some sort of tendon, knowing very well that if this were the case, he would not be moving very much at all.

Hilden kept shoving him from behind, urging him onwards frantically. "_Schnell,_ brother, before grenades start raining from the sky."

Moving as fast as he could, Berlitz struggled to keep his heavy MP44 from getting in his way. The weapon was strong and accurate, a godsend in comparison to what the _Amis _had, but_ mein Gott!_ It weighed down on him like a concrete slab!

He raised a dirty palm to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The back of his hand brushed his cheeks with the raspy grating. For no reason at all, the stubble of his unshaved beard suddenly disturbed him. He pictured himself now, crawling in the mud of a ditch, filthy and wretched, scampering in retreat.

And not for the first time.

_Some soldier you are, _he thought angrily. _What would father say of you now?_

Seconds whirled by as they rushed towards to the edge of the city. Any moment they expected to hear the Allies rushing over to the ditch, grenades in one hand, machine guns in the other. The two of them would be trapped like rats, completely exposed to the mercy of their enemies. And if the other soldiers were like the _1st Fallschirmjäger_, they would not bother to take prisoners.

Behind him, Hilden suddenly grabbed his ankle and tugged him to a halt. Bullets still zipping through the air, he whirled around and demanded, " What?"

Between heavy breaths, the other soldier said, " Berlitz, I can't…" He probed his wounded shoulder, which bled profusely from the exertion of crawling.

Berlitz glanced with dismay at the soldier's _Fallschirmjäger _crest, battered and red from the seeping wound. A crimson hue had overtaken the eagle sewn into the patch, and suddenly, its glorious symbolism seemed to be replaced by a bloody truth. True service to the Reich came at a price that not many men were willing to pay.

" Come on now," Berlitz insisted. " We can have Schmidt patch you up when we get to the church."

Hilden raised his head and smiled weakly, but his face had lost a lot of its youthful color. The strikingly handsome Aryan features of the young soldier had long ago been buried beneath the scars and grimness of the war. Today his green eyes looked unusually tired.

Another fusillade from the Allies, this one more concentrated, swept over the area about ten feet to their right. Surely the house must have been discovered as empty. Perhaps it was the openness of the terrain around the ditch that prevented the Allies from storming the position. That, as well as the frightening possibility of three or four heavily-armed Germans in such a defensive location.

But dependency on luck was a recipe for failure. Berlitz grabbed Hilden and shook him vigorously. " Come on, I said! Get moving!"

To lighten the load, Berlitz quickly removed the other's personal satchel and empty ammo belt. With visible strain on his face, Hilden lifted himself to a crouched stance and nodded weakly. Berlitz handed him the muddied MP44, and they were off again.

Not having gone forty more feet, they were suddenly stopped by the blast of a grenade, somewhere in the ditch behind them. The red-tiled roofs of Florence beckoned invitingly to them, some sixty feet ahead, but they dared not expose themselves by crawling out of the channel.

" The _Amis _are coming after us," Hilden said.

Berlitz frowned in agreement, lifting his head to risk a peak over the ledge. Some thirty feet back, a group of no less than fifteen green-clad soldiers were rushing up along the ditch, guns chambered for action. One of them spotted Berlitz and immediately squeezed off a round.

The bullet caught the dirt inches from the German's head. Berlitz dropped down beside Hilden and said, " Quickly, run!"

They tore away with the desperation of wild dogs, frantic to reach the bend at the end of the ditch. Berlitz quickly calculated the odds, holding his breath, and realized that there was no chance of reaching the wall in time.

He spun around, bringing up the MP44 with one hand and throwing Hilden to the ground with the other. Already a dirt-streaked soldier was standing on the ridge behind them, his BAR trained dead on to their position.

From somewhere above came the sporadic crackle of machine guns. The Allied soldier jerked four times violently and collapsed out of view. The hail of bullets continued to pound down from above, beating back the other Allies to the cover of the villa.

Hilden pointed up at the windows of the nearest _casa_, from which _Leutnant _Metz and the other three soldiers were leaning out. Metz signaled vigorously for the two of them to hurry up and get out of the ditch.

They needed no second invitation. Hunched over instinctively from the gunfire, Berlitz and Hilden finished their trek and entered through the basement door of the house. A musty smell seemed to be suspended in the cramped cellar, disintegrating into the pleasant aromas of bread baking and sweet candles on the main floor.

Metz and the others stomped down the stairs, their faces haggard in the poor light of the hallway.

" Twenty seconds…" Berlitz said with a nod. " I counted."

" So did I," the _Leutnant _responded. " And it was twenty four. Come. The enemy will be entering the city at any moment now, and I want to see where the rest of our scattered brothers are to be found. There are still jobs to be done."

Berlitz nudged his head towards his companion. " Hilden is hurt. He's very weak."

" We'll have a look at him when we reach the church. It isn't very far from here," Metz said, stepping into the frame of the door. He paused and turned back to his men. Their weary eyes gazed back at him.

In a low voice, Metz said, " Don't give up. There's still some fight in us yet."

He took in a lungful of air and exhaled, slowly. Leaning against the doorframe, he shut his eyes for a moment and tilted down his head. The soldiers waited expectantly, with nothing but trust in their hearts for their leader.

At last, Metz opened his eyes and allowed his piercing eyes to lock with each of the disheveled soldiers. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

" With duty, with pride, with honor, let us be soldiers, now and forever, and let us serve the _1st Fallschirmjäger_ until our last dying breaths."


	3. The House of God

**Chapter 3: _The House of God_**

Florence had been long awaiting liberation. The countryside of Pisa had been ravaged by aerial bombardments and artillery barrages, leaving only a wilderness of roofless houses and smoking craters. The city, however, had been lucky enough to remain untouched by the destructive fist of war. In an unspoken agreement between the Axis and the Allies, it was decided that the rich artwork and history of this particular city would survive unscathed. Standing proudly as a guardian of the metropolis was the magnificent _Duomo_, alongside with the Bapistry and the famous Leaning Tower—relics now of both history past and the history being made.

Today, an air of expectancy seemed to cling to every little bit of fabric on the streets and homes of Florence.

_Ungrateful. _Berlitz thought, frowning sharply. _These people are so ungrateful for what the Reich has given them. It is fascism that will builds great nations, you idiots, not the hypocritical democracy of the West._

As the band of soldiers trudged down the streets, doors would swing open an inch, eager eyes peering out. At the sight of a band of German soldiers—not the lovable _Amis_—these doors would quickly slammed shut.

Although the city was deathly quiet, the sounds of an army approaching could be heard in the far distance. Echoes of faraway artillery were carried in the cool breeze through the streets. Smoke from the burning countryside tainted the air. The deep rumble of tanks could be felt through the earth.

The war was coming. Here. To Florence.

_Leutnant _Metz was jogging at the head of the group. He pointed at the end of the road, about a quarter-mile down, where a small church steeple rose above the maze of jagged red roofs. Nodding to the others, he said, " There's our church."

They continued in silence, feet clattering on the cobbled streets, their uneasiness mounting with each step they took. All of them understood the situation they were in. Although the main Allied army would take a good week or two to enter the city, dozens of expedition parties (like the one from the Vineyard) had been sent in advance to secure key points. Undoubtedly, one of these targets was the reputable _Ponte Vecchio_, the only bridge over the Arno that had been left intact.

As for the special German soldiers left behind, including the _1st Fallschirmjäger_…

Well, Berlitz could not help but think that they were trapped in a serpent's den.

Metz suddenly held up his hand to stop the party. The _Leutnant's _stern face scrunched up for the slightest moment, flattening out into a featureless mask as he flung himself into a tiny alcove between two houses. Following his example, the other soldiers immediately melted into the walls of the city.

_Gefreiter _Berlitz helped the wounded Hilden sit down against the outcropping of a nearby house. Handing Hilden the Lugar from his belt, Berlitz put a finger up to his lips and then scuttled over to a stone well. He could see the rest of his companions, all wedged into corners like dark shadows, totally silent and immobile. Metz was the furthest front, tensed up like a marble statue.

Seconds later, an Allied soldier appeared around the corner. He was followed by two friends. From the color of their beige uniforms—muddied and torn—it was evident that they were British. Presumably a scouting party.

The Brits did not utter a single word to one another, and their footsteps were nearly inaudible. Whether they were searching for someone or simply taking precautions, their attitudes bore a quiet professionalism.

As soon as they were halfway down the street from Berlitz, Metz swung out of his hiding spot and aimed his MP44.

A single, well-aimed burst of fire leveled all three Brits. Two died instantly, but the third was still squirming when Metz walked over, Lugar in hand, and put a round in his forward.

" Should we hide the bodies?" _Gefrieter _Schmidt demanded.

" There's no time," Metz said quickly. " Our gunshots have been heard. Get to the church."

Now they ran. One leg pounding after another, Berlitz struggled with supporting Hilden and keeping pace. Hilden's wound had done no serious damage to any tissue, but it had bled enough to weaken the man physically.

Metz reached the church first and, holding wide the door, ushered the others inside.

As he crossed the threshold, Berlitz blinked in the dimness of the interior, lit mainly by a host of candles. The stain windows were blocked from the afternoon sun by towering houses on either side of the building. Not a very large structure, the church was more of a chapel—bearing only five rows of pews, a small confessional, and an altar below a crucifix. Each wall was aligned with alcoves that curved around statues. A set of stairs near the door wound up to the bell tower.

A round, balding priest hurried down the center aisle, his black frock billowing behind him. His voice was surprisingly deep and melodious when he introduced himself.

" I am Father Legora."

Metz gave a curt nod. " I am _Leutnant _Jaguer Metz of the _1st Fallschirmjäger._"

" Well, _Leutnant_, you missed a dozen British soldiers by about twenty minutes. They barged inside, found and shattered the radio in the basement, and then tried to get information from me."

" What did you tell them?" Metz's tone was sharp.

The large priest sighed. " Nothing, of course. I sent them on a wild goose chase to another church on the other side of the city."

From near the door, _Scutze _Hamman spoke out. " Can we trust this man, _Leutnant_?"

Father Legora became instantly apprehensive. " I am insulted to think that, after five years of service to the Reich, after relying hundreds of critical messages, you would dare to accuse me of treachery. Lying! And in the house of God!"

" You did to those British soldiers," Hilden pointed out.

" Yes, to protect all of _you_. I was told to expect several groups of Germans—special sabotage units—who would use my church to get messages out of Florence. There are only two other buildings in this city that can be used for these purposes. One has been discovered."

" What loyalty do you have to the Reich?" Hamman demanded. " Surely, as a priest, you cannot agree with many of the Fuhrer's policies."

Legora's nostrils flared. " Hitler has brought Germany out of poverty and depression. I do not pretend to condone the evils of war, but they are a necessity for establishing longer peace. I came to Italy to volunteer my services to the Reich, in the ways that I could. Now do not presume to stand there and-"

Metz held up a hand. " Enough. Father Legora, we have no choice then to believe you, moreover, to trust you. How badly damaged is the radio?"

Scratching his head, Legora said, " One of the British soldiers threw it against the wall. I tried the controls, after they left, and got no response. But I will show it to you, if you follow me."

Metz instructed Hamman cover the front door and sent Kieler, the group marksman, to the bell tower with his Kar 98.

Meanwhile, Schmidt had emptied the contents of his medical bag onto the floor and was picking through it, frowning. He glanced up at the priest. " Father, do you have any antibiotics? Some penicillin, perhaps?"  
Legora nodded vigorously, his meaty neck forming rolls. " Yes, in a cabinet in the cellar."

" Help Hilden downstairs," Metz commanded. " We need him to take a look at the radio, anyways."

They headed for the confessional on the side of the church, noting that the door had been ripped away. The opposite side of the booth was swung open, like a door, revealing a set of narrow, winding stairs.

Berlitz and Schmidt—slightly slimmer—proceeded downwards with relative ease. _Leutnant _Metz suffered a mild squeeze as his broad shoulders dragged along the stone walls. Hilden winced in pain, cursing and praising his muscular build as his bad shoulder bumped into the wall again and again.

Father Legora got stuck halfway down, and only after an embarrassing scuffle did he free himself.

The secret cellar was a small room, only twelve square feet, with a tiny table to hold the radio equipment. The piece itself was lying on the wooden floor, several wires jutting out of a broken panel. Hanging from the far wall was a glass cabinet containing four medicine bottles.

" I told them it was medication for my heart," Legora said, shamefully.

Berlitz almost chuckled. " You'll have quite a list for your next confession, father."

Striding to the corner, Metz had lifted up the radio, very gingerly, and set it back on the table. He helped Hilden into a chair and then stepped back to observe.

From one of his pockets, Hilden extracted a metal case for glasses and removed a pair from within. He mused over them, muttering, " I'm surprised these damn things haven't broken."

Then, putting them on, he got to work.

Standing between the _Leutnant _and the _Priester_, Berlitz watched the scene unfold in mild fascination. Before him were two men, one young and the other old, totally absorbed in their own worlds.

Tending to Hilden's wounds was Schmidt, the good _Doktor_. Aged and graying around the temples, Schmidt was fifty-five years old—considerably ancient for the Paratrooper's standards. The man had once been a private physician and married to a wife named Heidi. When Heidi had been killed in a freak car accident in 1940, Schmidt had nearly committed suicide in his desperation. A friend had urged him into military service, and he had enrolled. After a year of serving on the Russian front, Schmidt's courage and reputation had earned him a position on the _1st Fallschirmjäger_. He had become a part of the family, and so, they had deemed it appropriate to give him a nickname. He became _Opa_. Grandpa.

As Schmidt forced two pills into Hilden's mouth and began scrubbing his wound with a disinfectant, Hilden glared at him." _Opa_, take it easy. I'm not one of the _Amis_."

" Fix the damn radio and be quiet," Schmidt growled.

A minute of silence ensued. When the doctor had finished bandaging the wound, he retreated next to the other men.

Another minute passed by.

Then another.

" Well? What do you think?" Metz inquired.

Half-mindedly, Hilden said, " I can repair it. Give me eight minutes."

From upstairs, Hamman's voice suddenly echoed down. " _Leutnant!_ A group of British soldiers have found the bodies on the road! They're coming towards the church!"

Metz jerked to action. " How many?"

" Ten, perhaps! Maybe twelve!"

Turning to Hilden, Metz said, " Fix the radio and get our next orders. You have five minutes."

Hilden began to protest. " But I can't-"

" Do it!" Metz shouted.

Then, gun in hand, the _Leutnant _turned and led the way back up into the church.


	4. Sacriligious War

**Chapter 4**: _Sacrilegious War_

By the time _Gefreiter _Berlitz clambered back out into the main body of the church, Metz had taken firm control of the defenses. He and Hamman had flipped over two of the pews and stacked them into a makeshift barricade. Now they were struggling to form a similar blockade on the opposite side of the aisle, one which was staggered backwards far enough to allow an easy retreat. In the face of a heavy enemy onslaught or lobbed grenades, the defenders could pull back out of harm's way. If need be, they could withdraw into the rectory through a small door near the altar.

From high above in the bell tower came the sharp cracks of Kieler's Kar 98. The rifleman would keep the British soldiers pinned down in the street for at least a little while.

" Father, is there a back entrance to the rectory?" Metz demanded.

Legaro was already moving in that direction. " Yes, of course. There's a door to the rear street."

The _Leutnant's _austere face curled into a frown. " Kieler will slow them down from flanking us, but they may call for reinforcements. _Gefreiter _Hamman, come with the priest and me to barricade that back door. Berlitz, stay here with Schmidt and make ready your weapons."

Berlitz glanced at his MP44 and then groped about in his pockets. " I don't have much ammunition left. Only what's in my gun and a spare clip."

" Me neither," Schmidt grunted. " I'm on my last."

Again Metz turned to the priest, asking, " Father, do you have any weapons or ammunition?"  
Legora took a deep breath. " _Leutnant_, this is a church, not an arsenal! I do not keep firearms anywhere on the premise, and to be very honest, I am uncomfortable with the thought of spilling blood in this holy place. It's barbaric and sacrilegious and-"

" – _War _is sacrilege, father," Metz interrupted, his tone embittered. " If we do not fight, we will be murdered in cold blood. These men will not take prisoners after what we have done to their companions. Now, we must be quick! Is there another way out of the building?"

" In the kitchen, behind the stove," Legaro replied, " Some hidden stairs there lead to a tunnel, built in 544 AD as an escape route during the Gotho-Byzantine war. This passage will take you to the basement of an abandoned butcher's shop, somewhere near the heart of the city."

" _Into_ the city?" Berlitz repeated. " How is that an escape route?"

Legaro shook his head in a patronizing manner. " In the days of the Roman empire, many of conquered provinces had cities with two sets of walls. When the outer limits would fall into enemy hands, the people would flee behind the inner walls. Honestly, have they stopped teaching history in Germany or-"

" _There is_ _no time for this!_" shouted Metz. " Get to your positions, soldiers. Hilden will need four more minutes to fix the radio, and another two to make contact with our superiors. Buy him that time."  
Another distinctive rifleshot echoed from the bell tower.

As Metz and the others departed for the rectory, Berlitz could not help but feel a swelling pride in his _Leutnant_. Truly a soldier to the core, Metz shared the same gift as their former _Hauptmann, _Merhoff. Both officers had learned to mask their composure in times to crisis, to keep a cool head and deliver the orders that would save the lives of their men. Not a single man from their _trupp _of 18 had ever taken for granted the leadership of either Merhoff or Metz. During the ambush in Norway, Metz had foreseen the bombing of the road bridge and saved their truck from being engulfed in a fiery blast. Likewise, Merhoff's impeccable senses had felt the oncoming bombers at Monte Cassino, and thus the men had bunkered down in time to avoid decimation.

_ But Merhoff is lying in a villa hardly a mile from this church, with half of his brains blown out on the floor_, Berlitz thought somberly. _Our lives are in the Leutnant's hands now. If he falls in battle, we are lost._

Another audible shot rang from the bell tower.

Berlitz glanced at Schmidt, expectantly. Although both of them bore the same rank, the _doktor _had twenty years of seniority over Berlitz's thirty-five. And in the case of Schmidt, wisdom had come with age.

" _Opa, _what about the windows?" Berlitz asked, nudging towards the stained glass on either side of the church.

Schmidt shrugged. " The alleys are too narrow and cluttered for a man to squeeze into. They will either attack through the front or through the rear."

Another gunshot from above.

Uneasiness crept into Berlitz. He despised the feeling of being trapped inside a box. The monastery at Cassino had been his most miserable battle of the war, as endless streams of Poles had surged up the hills. There had been no escape route on that bloody peak, except under the cover of night.

" But what if they manage to throw in a grenade?" he insisted.

" Well, _Gefreiter_, you are in a church, so why don't you take advantage of _Herr Christus_ over there and pray for some luck."

At the exact moment those words had left his lips, an agonized cry echoed down from the bell tower. It was Kieler's voice, and its meaning was unmistakable.

Berlitz rushed towards the spiral stairs, shouting at Schmidt to watch the front doors. Up and up he ran, passing the tiny balcony and continuing onto wooden steps. His breath came in short, inaudible bursts under the creaking of the boards.

When he arrived at the top platform, he found a bloody Kieler sprawled out beneath four brass bells. The Kar 98 rested two feet from the edge, its barrel still smoking.

"_ Ficken sie_," Berlitz muttered. He rushed over to his friend, cursing again when he found saw the ragged hole in Kieler's right breast. A lung. It had to have hit a lung.

" _Nein!" _Kieler's hand violently shoved Berlitz backwards. A dribble of red leaked out of the corner of his mouth as he did so.

Confused and agitated, Berlitz hurried back to the soldier's side. He began fumbling through his satchel for some sort of bandages to slow the bleeding.  
" _Nein, sie idiot!_ _Heck-" _he broke off in a fit of bloody coughs.

" Sit still, it's alright," Berlitz said, unaware of the tears streaming down his face. His mind was totally numb. Only the animal-urge to save his friend and brother glowered within him. He couldn't lose Kieler like this. Not now.

Once again, Kieler's hand grabbed onto Berlitz's collar. In a surprising burst of energy, the wounded soldier yanked downwards, lifting himself up in the process. Berlitz felt a nick of pressure on the top of his head—like a little bee sting—and suddenly one of Kieler's dark eyes vanished in a spurt of red.

Berlitz jerked away in shock and dove towards the stairs. His aching knee screamed in agony as he plunged down headfirst, crumbling into one of the landings. The MP44 dug into his ribs ruthlessly.

There he lay, gasping in pain, crying and thrashing against the wall. He now understood what Kieler had been trying to say.

_Heckenschütze_. Sniper.

The memories came to him in a flurry, a mental wretchedness far worse than his bodily ailments. _Christmas of 1941… sitting around the table in Munich… complimenting Kieler's mother on such fine meat…discussing politics with Kieler's father…arguing with Hilden over politics… trading winks with Kieler's sister…July of 1942…the Russian caucus oil fields…ferocious fighting…card games at night…reminiscing of the old life…staking out futures…May 1943…meeting with Hamman in Sicily…joining the new 1st Fallschirmjäger…posing for photos…engaging the Allied invasion…retreating at Palermo…defending the beaches of Anzio…mourning the death of Schultz…Monte Cassino…_

Automatic gunfire roared somewhere below. Schmidt's hollers brought him back to his senses.

Two stairs at a time, ignoring the rippling torment of his knee, Berlitz hurried back to the floor of the church. He found Schmidt concealed in an alcove by the door, trembling from a close encounter. The main portal was riddled with bullet holes.

" Get to cover!" Schmidt hissed.

Berlitz took off towards the first barricade, wincing as another volley erupted from outside. While he slid to safety, sparks flickered on the stone walls and statues all around him.

Heart pounding, he checked his MP44 and stood to return fire. The gun bounced and jostled in his grip, but like an expert horseman, he had learned how to tame the wild stallion. He used quick, short bursts of fire. Each time the muzzle flared with glory, spewing spent cartridge to his feet. The gun's grimy warmth was a comfort to his hands.

When he stopped to reload, Schmidt came barreling over beside him. Outside the church, sounds of commotion and clapping feet, mingled with shouts in English, seeped through the new holes in the door. Berlitz knew some basic English; he could hear the cries for "MEDIC!" and took a vengeful solace in them.

" I hit one," he mumbled.

" We can't keep wasting bullets, or we'll be using our knives and boots before long," Schmidt whispered. " I say, don't open fire until you have a clear shot."

From the front of the church, Metz and Hamman rushed out of the rectory and zigzagged to the secondary barricade. Not wanting to crowd themselves all behind one set of pews, the two German soldiers remained where they were.

Hamman twisted his massive frame so that he had a view of Berlitz. Cupping his hands, he rasped, " Where's Kieler?"

Berlitz stared at him a moment and shook his head. When he saw the pain in Hamman's eyes, he looked away.

Metz also paused in silence, shifting his grey eyes towards the wall. His face remained ever the cold mask, but he had no way of hiding the grief in his eyes. Long had he been plagued by an infectious fear of spreading weakness in times that demanded strength. Emotions were weakness. Grief killed like lead bullets.

From the streets of Florence came the voices of a horde of British soldiers. No longer were there only ten men to worry about. Reinforcements had arrived.

Father Legaro appeared on the altar, frightened and flustered. " They're trying to break in through the rear. I don't know how much longer the supports will hold."

Without missing a beat, _Leutnant _Metz took charge again. Whether he was numb from shock or swept by the passions of battle, his voice was stern and authoritative. "Berlitz, go down into the cellar and have Hilden pack up his things. We need to leave."

Berlitz felt his feet moving beneath him, quick on command. Metz's words had become the voice of reason. They needed to get out. Now.

Down the narrow stairs he went, with reckless speed. In the basement, Hilden was bent over the radio, ear turned close to the sound box. A tiny voice spat out a few lines, but Berlitz could hear nothing from his distance.

" Hilden, come on," he began.

The younger man held up a finger. " Shh!" his face doubled in concentration. At last, he leaned back, pressed down a button, and said, " _Ja. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr General."_

_" _Pack it up, if you must, but hurry!" Berlitz insisted.

Hilden gathered about his belongings and stood up, casting a whimsical glance at the radio. " No, it's far too heavy to bring with us. And I already have our orders."

Not wanting to waste another moment, Berlitz turned and took to the stairs. One after another, he charged up the stone steps, oblivious to any claustrophobia from the narrow passage.

He burst out onto the church floor.

Metz was on his knees near Hamman, hands over his head. He looked at Berlitz and hollered, "_Hinunter!"_

Simultaneously, a deafening explosion blew Berlitz backwards in the confessional. He watched blearily as the doors of the church went sailing through the air, crashing somewhere on the altar. Fire rippled in the air after them, as if the forces of hell had just broken into the house of God.

From somewhere outside, a hoarse voice screamed in English, " Forward men! Charge now!"


	5. Wounds of Pride

**Chapter 5**:_Wounds of Pride_

A thousand bells clanged inside Berlitz's head. He felt the sturdiness of Hilden's chest behind him, heard his curses from a thousand miles away. Dust filled his nostrils and, looking up high, he could see through a jagged hole in the top of the confessional. A fine grey mist was raining from the ceiling of the church.

" Get up!" Hilden was screaming. " My shoulder! Move, Berlitz, GET UP!"

He struggled to get up, but his knee buckled beneath him with a fiery jolt. Ahead of him, in the body of the church, he could see Metz and Hamman shaking their heads to clear away the daze. Schmidt was not visible from here.

_Leutnant _Metz jerked around and dove towards the bottom of the pews. A second later, he surfaced with a grenade and whipped it towards the doors. Its explosion outside sent a deep rumble through the earth.

_What the hell did they use on the door? Dynamite? _ he wondered.

With his wits quickly returning to him, Berlitz eased himself to his feet and grabbed Hilden's good shoulder. He nudged the other soldier forward and then stepped out of the confessional himself. His steps were ginger, yet tense as a wire. Both hands were wrapped securely around his MP44, one to steady, one to kill. Every ounce of attention and energy were focused on the ragged hole that was the entrance to the church.

A British soldier wheeled around the corner, arm cocked with a grenade.

Berlitz put three shots in him—the first striking the neck, the other two tearing away the skull. The grenade remained in the fallen soldier's hand, shearing his body with a violent splash.

"—have our new orders," Hilden was saying to the _Leutnant_.

" Then we must pull back from this church," Metz snapped. He called to the rest of his men: "_Rückzug_! Retreat to the tunnel."  
Covering one another, the group fell back to the second line of pews. A storm of bullets swept the inside of building, pinning them down behind this position. Hamman sprang up along the edge of the barricade to return fire.

With this distraction, they managed to sprint to the rectory doors. Father Legaro was waiting on the other side, half hidden behind a large dresser cabinet.

" They'll be coming in through the back any second," the priest said. "Follow me. _Schnell!_"

In the church behind them, grenades exploded in multiple concussions, flinging debris and furniture against every wall. Berlitz watched through the open door as the massive crucifix broke from its supports and toppled down on the altar. It demolished the tiny stand with a deafening splinter of wood.

He swung shut the door, slid the bolt lock in place, and set off in pursuit of the others. Through the changing room he hobbled, then through a little parlor and then the kitchen. Here, the others had paused in front of a large stove.

Schmidt and Hamman took a place on either side of the obstruction. Grunting with effort, the two men pushed the massive stove aside. Where it had once stood, a thin black space now appeared in the wall. It was no more than two feet wide.

Legaro was rummaging through one of the kitchen's drawers. He fished out a large flashlight and handed it to Metz, saying, " There are a set of stairs immediately to your right when you enter. They lead down to the main tunnel, or so I've heard." He patted his stomach. " Obviously this is one little passage that I have not been able to explore."

Metz nodded. " Thank you, father. Your services to your country will never be forgotten. You have done your duty well."

A glimmer of pride and satisfaction sparkled in Legaro's eyes. " And I thank you, _Leutnant_, for giving me this final opportunity to serve the Fatherland."

A tumultuous _bang_ shook the house. Soldiers could be heard everywhere, shouting orders, stampeding through rooms.

Metz edged himself into the gap, followed by Schmidt and then Hilden. Hamman gazed at Berlitz expectantly.

" Go," Berlitz said. " My knee is in distress. I may slow you down."

" No, I will not let you stray behind."

" Stop this, Hamman, and get in the damn-"

" Berlitz, I will not move until you go."

The door to the kitchen rattled in its frame as boots pounded on it. Quickly, Berlitz squeezed himself into the crevice. He had to walk sideways, his gun cropped at an angle, in order to proceed. A darkness so thick surrounded him that he could not see more than three feet ahead. He tried to move with some prudence, so as not to fall blindly down the stairs, but Hamman's body was constantly jostling him onwards. There was no sign of Metz's flashlight, meaning the _Leutnant_ had already descended beyond sight.

In the kitchen, he heard Father Legaro's throaty voice speaking in English, most of which he could understand. "What do you mean by this intrusion? This is my _home_, and I will not-"

A rifle silenced the priest.

Berlitz felt the first step beneath his foot. He began to descend.

A gun sprayed down the narrow tunnel, bullets ricketing off the stone walls. Behind him, Hamman cried out in pain and fell forward. The big soldier collapsed into his arms and knocked him off balance, sending both of them tumbling down the stairs, out of danger.

Berlitz tried to break his own fall, but something large and blunt cracked against his head. Blinding agony rippled through his skull and down to every pore of his body. He gasped as his body struck the level ground, with Hamman's weight knocking the air out of him.

Through a distorted phantasmagoria of blood, he could vaguely see Metz's flashlight. Voices bombarded his ears, echoed by the passageway, full of anxiety and concern.

" …shot in the head?"

" No, he's still alive. Just got banged up from falling."

" Hamman, where are you hit?"

" Shit, his abdomen. It's a deep hit."

Pain drowned out the rest of the worlds. His head was like a raging sea of agony, waves battering his skull with growing ferocity. Consciousness struggled to remain adrift, to keep from descending into the foaming waters of concussion.

Mechanically, he felt himself rise from the floor. His movements were staggered and shaky—in no manner voluntary. He could not see, could not hear, could not feel the air cycling through his lungs, but he was moving, by God!

It was the Soldier's Spirit that had invigorated his limbs. That desperate animal that he had trained for five years—now it seized control of him. It was more than an instinct for survival, more than a will to live. In seas of blood, it gave men the strength to swim. In storms of bullets, it gave them the power to run. Wounds were superficial. So long as a soldier's heart was beating, he could get up and take action.

Berlitz groped in the darkness, found a pair of shoulders to lean on, and nodded with his head in a direction. His message was clear.

_Don't waste time. Let's go._

The idea of Hamman, the Titan, the Ogre, being mortally injured was beyond belief. Only a minute passed before Berlitz's faceless guide began to draw him down the tunnel. Hamman would be close behind them, leaning on someone else, no doubt.

Despite his greatest efforts to tread lightly, each step sent nauseating waves through Berlitz's head. Whether or not he made any noise remained a mystery to his deafened ears. He continued onwards, a human machine.

All men of the 1st German Paratrooper division were molded into lean, strong soldiers. The physical preparation in the camps paled in comparison to the brutal conditioning of real-time war. Miles of endless tracking over rugged terrain, desperate battles that lasted for days, hand to hand combat, nights spent awake and on guard, ferocious assaults on enemy positions—all had honed their bodies into taunt knots of steel. Army rations were poor enough to carve away the bellies of even the fattest of soldiers. And after four years of this chaos, after weeks of living on the edge, after days spent digging entrenchments, after hours of grieving and mourning, after minutes of deathly silent and seconds of troubled sleep; only after all of these did remarkable strength of the human body truly come to surface.

The Reich had not changed fathers and brothers into brittle killing machines. No, it was war that had done this.

Gradually his senses returned to him. First came sound—footsteps, breathing, the running of water. Next came the smell of sweat and grim, mixed with the stench of rats from the passageway. Then his eyes caught the blurry whiteness of Metz's flashlight, cutting the darkness like a sword.

He struggled to speak, but managed only to mumble, " Whuh-"

" _Quiet,_ Berlitz you damn fool," Schmidt's voice snarled. There was something cruel and distraught in the doctor's scratchy voice. A choked misery.

" Whuhs Hamm…" he insisted.

" I said shut up!" Schmidt snapped.

He fell into a deep silence, dizzy and violently sick. Through the pain in his head, he could not feel his troublesome knee, but he knew the problems would return tenfold when he recovered. The swelling would be a grisly nightmare. He wondered how he would be able to fight, let alone walk. He wondered, then, if any of them were destined to survive this war. Last he had heard, the _1st Fallschirmjäger_ was disintegrating. Thirteen men from his _trupp_ of eighteen were dead, including _Hauptmann_ Merhoff and his companion, Kieler. What sort of wretched luck had kept _him_ alive this long?

Light became more visible, his senses slightly sharper. They couldn't have walked more than a half mile, but his body was starting to sag. Even the Soldier's Spirit could not sustain forever, especially now that they were out of danger.

But were they?

" Schmidt, how is Hamman?" he demanded, taking time to enunciate clearly.

" Don't. No, he's…he's…" Schmidt's voice wavered and cracked. The man had been sobbing, quietly.

Metz's cold voice bounced off the stone corridor. " He asked for his gun."

Berlitz began to tremble violently. " What? No, no, he couldn't. Hamman? No, not Hamman. Not…" He couldn't cry.

" They'll be coming after us," Metz said robotically. " Hamman may slow them down, but not for long. I've got our new orders from Hilden; we must hurry."

Berlitz was only half listening. A phrase repeated itself in his head, over and over. _He asked for his gun. He asked for his gun. He asked for his gun. He asked for his gun. He…_

It was a request made only by dying men. So many others in their division had fallen in the same manner, mortally wounded and left with only their pride and honor. Pride to ask for their gun. Honor to fight for their country, even with their last breath.

In answer to his thoughts, gunfire rang out in the tunnel, its distance warped by echoes. Somewhere behind them, a mangled Hamman was engaging in one last valorous fight. One last feat of strength. One last stand.

The metallic melody rose in a thunderous cacophony. Its intensity and ferocity mingled with shouts of effort. Hamman's voice was strong as ever, glorified even in the hour of his death.

The fusillade increased to a climax, which held for two seconds. Then all fell silent.

Hearts heavy and spirits low, the four remaining men of the _1st Fallschirmjäger _pressed on towards their next task. The war was over for Hamman, but not for them. Not yet.


	6. The Soldier's Legacy

**Chapter 6: **_Legacy of the Soldier_

" They're catching up to us," Hilden said.

Cold and shivering in the dampness of the tunnel, the four men paused in unison. Their breathing was ragged; their bodies were stiff at the joints and tender everywhere else. In the narrow corridor, their ears picked up the clatter of footsteps. The winding passage blocked out any sight of the enemy, but the piercing beams of flashlights cut towards them.

Metz frowned. " Berlitz, how is it?"

Berlitzmanaged a solitary grunt of pain and acknowledgement. For him, the realities of the world had evaporated into a hazy dreamscape. He saw himself sitting on the banks of the Elbe, back in Hamburg seven years ago. Lena was leaning in his arms, her head on his shoulder, as they watched the world go rushing by. In the cool breeze of the river, he kissed her and pressed his warmth against her. There was no need for discussion. Only quiet, peaceful...

A hand slapped him. Hard.

" Stay awake, you idiot," Schmidt snapped. "You're too damn heavy to carry."

" Damnit, _Opa_!" he growled. " Give me my gun and leave me here."

Metz was studying the tunnel walls around them. The _Leutnant_'s eyes locked on to a point on the ceiling, about five yards back. Where the thick stone had crumpled years ago, that area had been patched up with wooden beams.

Angrily, Berlitz said, " I'm slowing you down. _Leutnant, _please, give me my gun. Remember our code of honor…"

" Shut up, Berlitz. You aren't dying," Metz answered. Fumbling through his vest, the _Leutnant _unhooked a grenade and moved towards the portion of dilapidated ceiling.

No less than a hundred meters behind them, loud boots could be heard beating down the pathway. The dim haze of flashlights bounced around the sharp turn in the tunnel. Voices were audible, muffled in their numbers. No less than ten soldiers.

Schmidt tossed an anxious glance ahead of their position, where the tunnel melted into darkness. The corridor was a straight line, which meant that they would have no cover when the British came around the corner.

Hilden helped lower Berlitz to the ground and then propped the MP-44 in the soldier's arms. He bent down next to his friend and whispered, " There's only part of a clip left. Use it wisely."

Calling over to them, Metz ordered Hilden to hold the flashlight. " Point it at the ceiling. _There_! Schmidt, pick up Berlitz and pull him back. We're not going to fight. Not here. Not now."

The British were close now, perhaps fifty meters just around the corner.

The _Leutnant_ leapt upwards, his brittle hands clasping on to one of the support beams. With a grunt of effort, he lifted his body up high enough to lodge his pinless grenade into a hole in the rotting wood. He dropped down like a cat and sprinted madly towards the rest of his men.

A flashlight wheeled around the corner, followed by three others. Someone shouted in surprise, and a machine gun opened fire. Simultaneously, the grenade exploded with a shattering power. The flashlights disappeared behind a cascading wall of dust and debris. With a deep rumble, portions of the ceiling caved inwards. The domino effect rippled outwards, as if the entire tunnel was collapsing in on itself.

Berlitz watched blearily, waiting for the world to come crashing down on him. The others around him were dragging him backwards with a frantic effort. A hungry monster with yearning jaws seemed to appear in the rushing clouds of smoke.

Just when the ceiling above them threatened to smash down, the process suddenly ended.

They sat there, breathing hard, gazing with disbelief at the massive pile of rubble only three feet away. Dust constricted their throats and stung their eyes. The trembling earth could still be felt under their fingers. Nothing from the British could be heard through the obstruction.

At last, Hilden said, " Our last grenade, I take it?"

Metz nodded.

" We're on our last clips of ammunition. We have no more grenades. What are we going to fight with, our knives?" Schmidt demanded.

" We'll worry about that later," Metz replied. " Now, let's-" he broke off into a fit of coughing. " Let's get out of this tunnel."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They emerged in the dusty, cobwebbed cellar full of old crates and barrels. Sunlight crept in at awkward angles, throwing a spectrum of golden hues across the dirty floor. The air was musty and permeated with faint traces of meat.

Tired, bruised, dampened with sweat, the four soldiers shrugged off their weapons and sank to the ground. Berlitz groaned at his pounding headache. The bleeding from his skull had stopped, for the most part, and his knee quickly reassumed its role as the primary source of pain. His throbbing leg was bloated from so much walking.

None of the other soldiers were in the best of condition, either. Although he tried to cover it, Hilden's bad shoulder seemed to be afflicting him terrible. Schmidt was physically exhausted, his older face creased in weary wrinkles. Even the iron _Leutnant _Metz sighed and rubbed his eyes.

" _Opa_, any chance you're carrying morphine?" Berlitz asked groggily.

" _Nein,_ I gave my last dose to _Gefreiter _Deidrich two days ago," Schmidt answered.

" Too bad…" Hilden murmured.

" Yes, too bad," Berlitz repeated. A wave of disorientation swept over him.

Schmidt scuttled over to him and withdrew a line of graying bandages from his dirty knapsack. The doctor then wound these diagonally across Berlitz's head, covering the cranial wound gently. He secured it with a clothespin.

" We'll have to find some alcohol for disinfectant, as soon as possible," Schmidt muttered. " But that should keep out the dust for a while."

Berlitz tried to speak, but another surge of darkness cascaded over him.

…when it had gone, his eyes could see Metz sitting several meters away from him. A stream of light bathed the _Leutnant's _rigorous face, as if in heavenly splendor. Dirty and spattered with mud, Metz's silver hair had lost its brilliance, but his cold eyes remained piercing and firm. In his strong hands was a tiny medallion, which glimmered in the light.

" What is that, _Leutnant_?" Berlitz inquired.

Metz smiled, sadly. " This? This is an Iron Cross. It's all that's left to tell the story of one of the best soldiers I have ever known. It belonged to _Hauptmann _Merhoff, and somehow, I will make sure that it gets back to his family."

Metz paused, fiddling with the medal, deep in thought. Then he said, " Merhoff sacrificed enough for his country that he deserves to be remembered. Remembered by his children and his grandchildren and their children beyond. And although his body remains buried under dust and debris, perhaps one day the world will pay him homage. Perhaps one day, we will all be remembered. Not as Germans. Not as enemies. Not as losers. Not as statistics."

" But how, _Herr Leutnant_?" Schmidt demanded.

Metz let his head lull back for a second, resting against the wooden beam. He spoke up into nothingness. " We'll be remembered for what we were—soldiers."

A deep silence filled the air, broken occasionally by a ragged breath.

" It would be nice to think that none of this has been in vain," Hilden mused.

With a grunt, Metz rose to his feet. " Don't think for one moment that what we've done has been in vain." He shouldered his pack and his materials, pocketing the Iron Cross securely at his breast. " This war will be remembered years after our bones rot to dust. They will look back at their books and say to themselves, '_Once there was a Roman Empire, shadowed only by the greatness of the German Empire.'"_

From where he was still seated, _Gefreiter _Berlitz felt a stir of pride in his gut. Patriotism seeped into his wounds, soothing them, invigorating his muscles, clearing his head. With Schmidt's help, he hobbled to his feet and picked up his MP-44. He snapped out the magazine and weighed it in his hand.

" Less than half full," he announced.

"That won't be a problem," Metz said. " Hilden spoke on the radio to our commanding officer, who is camped near Bologna. We're to cross the _Ponte Vecchio _quietly and move west to _St. Trinitia Piazza_, where a certain Victor Granzoli lives. Granzoli's an important and revered physicist who has engaged in many of the Reich's secret weapons programs, and the Reich wants him out of Allied hands.We will escort this man from his apartment to the plaza. Exactly thirty minutes from now, another squad will arrive and escort us out of the city."

" We're still going to need bullets," Berlitz said.

" We are to proceed with _stealth_," Metz answered, sternly. " Our commander believes that the British and the Americans have not penetrated very deeply into the city. We shouldn't encounter too much resistance."

Hilden rolled his eyes. " What do _you_ think, _Leutnant_?"

" I think that the _Amis _have made it a priority to secure the _Ponte Vecchio_. However, it's the only remaining bridge over the Arno, so unless you're feeling strong enough to swim the current, we're out of luck."

" How about a boat?" Berlitz demanded.

Schmidt shook his head. " We'd be spotted immediately as the only boat on the river. It would make too much noise, and it would set them on our trail again."

" Then let's stay and wait for darkness to come. The sun is beginning to set, already," Hilden pointed out.

" No," Metz answered. " We have thirty minutes. I'm afraid our friends on the other side of the river won't have the nerve to wait for us. The _Amis _will be swarming into the city by nightfall. In exactly thirty-one minutes, our ride will disappear."

Berlitz objected, " What about Victor? They won't leave without him. They've been given the order also, haven't they? It's their duty. It's…" he trailed off.

Turning at the base of the cellar stairs, Metz smiled sadly. " If the world were full of honorable men, Berlitz, we would not be fighting this war now."


	7. Crossing the Arno

**Chapter 7: **_Crossing the Arno_

As they approached from a side street, the magnificent _Ponte Vecchio _came into view, arched over the river Arno. The descending sun cast rainbow hues over the sides of its colorful shops and set the water into a fiery blaze. Three stories high, the bridge complex became a widely popular location for those in search of Florence's finest gold and silver merchandise.

Built originally in 1345 AD by Taddeo Gaddi, the _Ponte Vecchio _became a home to a group of butchers in the 16th century. However, when Cosimo I moved into the Palazzo Pitti across the river, the rancid stench provoked him to evict the butchers and install goldsmiths and silversmiths. To this day they have remained.

Even in 1944, at the height of the war, business seemed to flourish in the district. It had been spared the fate of all other bridges over the Arno. _Gefreiter _Berlitz marveled at the unexpected display of historical passion among the leaders of the Reich.

_Leutnant _Metz halted the group with a raised hand. He pointed upwards at one of the third-story balconies, where two Allied soldiers were lingering about and keeping watch. Another three soldiers could be seen among the Roman arches spanning the center of the bridge.

" Listen," Metz said. " We have not the ammunition or the manpower to engage in an open fight. The entire success of this operation—and our lives—depend on remaining quiet. The _Amis _must not know that we are here."

" Can we cross over the roof?" Schmidt demanded.

Metz squinted at the red tiled roof over the shop district, like embers in the dying sunlight. " No, we'll be too visible from any point in the city. Our only chances are to use the main street."

Sighing collectively, they nodded their agreement and moved onwards. Berlitz still needed Schmidt's support to take the pressure off his bad knee. The thought of even climbing up to the roof had rattled him.

They drifted like shadows from one alley to another, zigzagging through the abandoned streets closer and closer to the entrance of the bridge. Occasionally the muffled cries of a baby could be heard through the doors of the buildings nearby. If not for this, the town might as well have been inhabited by ghosts.

Four American soldiers, clad in their dirty green uniforms, stood in discussion at the threshold of the bridge. Behind them, the empty shop district could be seen. Roofs cut jagged angles out over the main street, and in the setting sun, shadows stretched out everywhere. This would provide good cover once they were on the bridge.

The _Amis _were calmly smoking cigarettes. Word must have reached them that their half of the city had been secured.

Metz and his men approached to within twenty feet, their feet soundless on the cobbled roads. The taunting aroma of smoke reached their nostrils—a brand which Berlitz recognized to be _Camel_—and a longing went through the four of them.

_What a pleasant time the Amis have had in this war_, Berlitz thought angrily, a pang of jealousy racing through him. _They wait for five years to join the fighting, and come with warm food and fresh cigarettes and enough ammunition to level mountains._

The Americans at the bridge, thankfully, had turned their attention away to gaze at the wondrous _Duomo_, raising its great dome over the city in the orange sun. Metz slipped past them, hugging the opposite side of the street. Schmidt and Berlitz followed quietly, with Hilden bringing up the rear. Their guns were trained on the _Amis_, ready to open fire the second one turned around. Such an event would spell disaster for the remainder of their journey.

Berlitz caught fragments of the English conversation through his rudimentary learning. The main theme of the discussion was about the sweethearts left back in America. He thought of his own Lena, back in Hamburg, who would be waiting for letters from her brother, Hilden, and he himself. A deep ache went through his heart.

Metz tugged them, one by one, into a narrow alley once they had passed the soldiers. They were safely on the bridge now and out of sight for the time being.

The _Leutnant _tried the knobs of the adjacent doors and found them all locked. Fearing that a break-in would cause too much noise, he signaled the others to follow him back out onto the street.

From where they advanced, a jutting building sheltered them from the vantage of the four _Amis_.

Berlitz had broken into a nervous sweat, which caused his head wound to throb again. He worried that he might pass out.

They reached the central portion of the bridge, where three more Americans were lounging around the arched portals of the wall. It was a span of thirty meters to the safety of the shops beyond. However, fortune seemed to favor the German soldiers, for the _Amis _were leaning over the railing and had their backs turned to the street.

The four men of the _1st Fallschirmjäger_ moved soundlessly, not daring to even breathe. They were close enough that Berlitz feared their very odor giving them away. His worry was needless—the wind was blowing back on them.

Even as they reached the dense shop district and stepped into darkness, Berlitz never took his eyes off the Americans. Perhaps this was why his foot caught an uneven cobblestone, and he toppled with Schmidt into a small wooden counter. Immediately, the doctor grabbed him by the lapel and dragged him over the top. They landed hard on the other side.

His head spinning, Berlitz struggled to listen for approaching footsteps. _Surely the Amis must have heard that_.

Schmidt, lying beside him, had his MP-44 cocked upwards. The next curious face that leaned over the counter would find itself staring at the grimy barrel of a machine gun.

English voices drifted over the barrier, although Berlitz could not make out any traces of alarm. He thought he heard something that sounded like "stupid animal," but the pace of footsteps could be heard.

Only one soldier had been sent to inspect the intrusion, and his voice carried strongly back to the others. He paused on the other side of the counter, his shadow falling on the store's tan walls. From where he was standing, all it would take was another step forward, and he would spot two bodies pressed against the barrier.

Berlitz felt his lungs on fire as sweat trickled down his brow. He dared not breathe, nor make any sound at all. He waited anxiously for the sound of Schmidt's gun blowing off the man's head.

It did not come.

After a lingering glance, the American returned to join his friends. Berlitz exhaled shakily and glanced at Schmidt. The other soldier pursed his lips and shook his head wearily.

They waited another minute and rose together, peering over the edge. Metz and Hilden were nestled into crevices across the street; the _Leutnant _had his knife drawn and ready. Hilden gave Berlitz a scorching glare, to which Berlitz shrugged apologetically and swung his body over the counter.

United again on the streets, they proceeded another twenty meters and froze.

Ahead, a band of five more American soldiers were in a heated debate with six British men. A British officer spoke angrily towards an American sergeant, who fired back responses with a flurry of gesticulations. The other men stood about in a wide circle, encompassing the width of the street, watching curiously as their two leaders disputed.

There would be no sneaking around this blockade.

Hilden pointed out a window nearby, which was slightly ajar. Metz nodded his approval, and together they forced it open. The _Leutnant _then clambered inside, followed by Schmidt, Berlitz, and Hilden.

They found themselves in the darkness of a jewelry store. Unslinging his flashlight, Metz guided them through a maze of glass counters to a rear door. This too was locked, but it was safe enough now for him to ram his shoulder into it.

With a sharp crack, the old frame splintered and gave way.

Together as one they stumbled into the small parlor of an apartment. Several lamps cast light over the faces of a frightened family at the dinner table. A small, dark-haired woman with delicate skin sprang to her feet and let out a wail of terror, accompanied by two smaller cries from a boy and girl.

Metz dashed to the woman and clamped his hand on her mouth. He turned two the children and snapped, " _Sei ruhig!_" Then, remembering where he was, he switched to Italian. " _Silenzio!_"

They did not shut up. He turned menacingly towards the frail father, who had backed feebly into the corner. Metz pressed his knife against the wife's throat and notched his head towards the children.

Terrified, the father rushed to his children and knelt next to them, begging them to be quiet and wrapping them around him. They began to cry, but this was muffled against his shirt.

" _Tetto?" _Metz demanded, asking for a roof.

The man nodded and pointed with a trembling hand at the stairs to the rear, " _Si, scalare le scale."_

Metz nodded to Hilden and Schmidt, who helped Berlitz ascend the stairs. Then, pressing his finger against his lips sternly, the _Leutnant _let go of the woman and hurried up after them.

The second floor was narrow and partitioned into two sleeping chambers. One was for the kids. The other, dominated by a large bed, served the parents. It was in the latter room that Schmidt pointed out another set of stairs, leading up into a loft-like area. Here a window had been opened, and the smell of the river drifted in with the air.

There was a small, red-tiled roof which extended out over the Arno. Several other roofs followed a similar pattern on different levels of elevation, so that there was a ragged path over the rest of the river.

Not caring anymore whether they were seen or not, Metz led the way out. The cool river breeze filtered through their clothes and massaged their tired limbs. One step at a time, they clambered up and down over the roofs—pausing frequently to help Berlitz with his leg or Hilden with his bad shoulder—until they reached the corner between the _Ponte Vecchio _and the apartment of the next street.

Here, Metz kicked in a shuttered window, and they slid into a tiny bedroom. They paused to rest and catch their breath.

" We have ten minutes to get down to _St. Trinitia _and find Victor Granzoli," Metz informed them, after checking his watch.

Schmidt groaned. " Then we had better get moving."

The words were said, dutifully, but no one moved to action. Metz turned to inspect their faces. Tired, worn, beaten, hungry, they were at a point where any ordinary man would have given up. But surrender was an impossible concept for them to grasp. This far into the war, the idea of wiping away all their tears and sweat with a white flag seemed mutinous to their very being. They were committed. They would die before the war's end, because they had no other choice.

But they would not complain. They had never complained, in all their years of hunger and thirst and terrible loss. The men of the _1st Fallschirmjäger_ represented something noble and honest, if there was such a thing in the realm of war.

If it was even possible to comprehend, this war had, at last, created something beautiful.


	8. Sunset in Florence

**Chapter 8: **_Sunset in Florence_

Shadows filled _St. Trinita Piazza_ as the four soldiers treaded lightly down the cobbled street. The church itself was shunted from the retreating light, so that only an angle of its marble façade could be seen, burning red in the hue of the setting sun. Inside its old walls were the works of Domenico Ghirlandio—a series of frescoes vividly depicting the life of St. Francis of Assisi.

_Santa Trinita _had, by no means, a spacious or picturesque location. Although it was within a short distance of the Arno, the church seemed to merge right into the crowded city from any far distance. The soldiers found themselves thankful for the building's modest existence; anything more might have drawn the curiosity of the Allied soldiers.

Their footsteps echoed off the apartment buildings surrounding the _piazza_. In the dim shadows, it was nearly impossible to distinguish their uniforms from the graying walls of the buildings.

Berlitz—slightly more upbeat now that his head and knee had both reduced their throbbing—began to feel deep pangs of hunger. He realized that they had not eaten

anything since early morning, and the hassles of battle had sapped his strength.

Hilden paused at the head of the group, surveying the buildings around them. After a moment, he pointed and said, " That's the number, there, according to our instructions. Victor Granzoli had better be home."

_Leutnant_ Metz glanced at his watch and murmured, " Six minutes left. Berlitz, I want you and Schmidt to stand guard outside and look for our escort. If you see any of the enemy approaching, hide yourselves. We're in no position to fight."

He and Hilden then turned and moved towards the apartment building. They disappeared inside the front door, which was unlocked.

Nodding after them, Schmidt said, "_Jawohl, Herr Leutnant..._" He looked at Berlitz and cocked his head, indicating that he would take the other corner of the _piazza. _Berlitz shrugged and seated himself in a dark recess, watching his friend wander off into the shadows.

It was a remarkable thing that Schmidt had the stamina to continue to serve so well at his age, Berlitz reflected. The young _Gefreiter _began to wonder if he would ever get to experience a life as long as Schmidt's.

_Some men die young. Others old. Fate is blind to age, _he mused.

A familiar, unsettling silence descended upon the scene. He sat there, a motionless statue, looking alternatively down two streets for the sight of friendly soldiers. Nothing could be heard but the wind—not the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the mew of a housecat, nor the bark of a stray dog. He marveled at this haunting city of ghosts and art. It seemed as if Florence had frozen in the 15th century.

The urge to yawn overcame him, and as he did so, a bolt of fresh pain broke out in his head. It was a painful remainder that his wound would take time to heal.

Ten minutes passed by. Berlitz had no watch, but his internal clock told him that it was so. He felt his eyes straying to the _Croce al Trebbio_, the little granite column in the center of the _piazza _upon which a little bronze warrior proudly bore his sword. Using his rudimentary Italian skills, Berlitz was able to depict the story of the monument from an old plaque nearby.

Erected in 1338 AD by a group of Dominican friars, the statue was raised to commemorate a famous local victory. In 1244 AD, apparently, the earlier friars had gone to battle with a group of heretics on that same very street. Berlitz wondered, with a chill, if the history of the place would repeat itself today.

He began to feel restless and bothered again by his knee. Without something to occupy his mind, all of his thoughts swirled around the growing pain in his leg. He cursed the war, and then cursed Hitler for good measure.

He was ashamed that his countrymen were still swallowing up the lies spewed by Hitler's propaganda machine. Surely no one was so stupid to think that there was any hope left for the Fatherland. They had had their share of glory—he still remembered storming the _Sudetenland_, and the feeling of pride during the parades in Paris,showing off his medals to the entire world. He remembered rejecting offers for promotions; like a young, arrogant soldier, he had wanted to remain a lowly frontline fighter.

_" Für einen Fuehrer. Für einen Reich!" _ He would shout, along with millions of Germans. " For one leader. For an empire!"

Bile rose in his throat at the memories of those days. Had he really been that easy to manipulate? The Nazis had promised order and peace after a brief and glorious fight, and he had gobbled it all up. All soldiers would be heroes to the Fatherland. Glory and honor, forever.

" _The confidence of the German people will always accompany their soldiers_," Hitler had promised in his speech at the Reichstag, back in 1941.

Berlitz wondered briefly if his Fuehrer wasn't hiding at this very moment in his gargantuan bunker in Berlin, scheming with his cronies on how to best fight to the bitter end, to the last drop of blood. Not _their_ blood, of course, but that of Germany's fine young soldiers.

" Berlitz, have you gone deaf?"

Schmidt was towering over him, his voice low and venomous. Berlitz quickly came back to his senses.

" What is it?" he asked.

" Our friends are coming down the back street. They're in the _truck_! And a _fucking LOUD one too!_" Schmidt growled, his voice both enraged and fearful.

As quickly as he could, Berlitz rose to his feet and hobbled out from his resting place. Sure enough, a large grey lorry was rattling down the cobble road. Two soldiers were seated in the cab itself, with four others anxiously leaning out from the bed.

The truck clanged down into the _piazza_, its mechanical groans amplified by the walls of the buildings. It stopped in front of the _Croce al Trebbio _column.

Schmidt and Berlitz rushed over to the driver's door.

Sitting behind a wheel was a balding soldier with a wrinkled face and cruel eyes. His uniform showed him to be a _Hauptmann, _and by the look of his decorations, a damn fine one.

But Schmidt had little regard for formalities at this point. " Are you mad, _Herr Hauptmann_? They can hear this metal junk back in Berlin!"

" Shut up!" the officer snapped. " By coming back into this forsaken city, my men and I are throwing ourselves at the mercy of the wolves. Where's your commander? _Hauptmann _Jonas Merhoff?"

" Dead," Berlitz said. " There are only four of us left from our unit. _Leutnant _Metz is inside with another of ours; they went to fetch Granzoli."

The captain scowled and glanced around the streets. " What's taking them so long?"

" I don't know," Berlitz confessed. " We've been waiting for about-"

A fusillade of bullets cut past his ear and shattered the side mirror of the truck. He fell prone—due more to his leg buckling then to any voluntary action. Above him, the _Hauptmann _was cursing violently and the other soldiers were pouring from the back of the truck, scattering out for protection. Schmidt remained standing, dumbfounded.

" _Opa_, get down!" Berlitz lurched up and dragged his friend down, just as another round of bullets hit the front of the truck.

Berlitz spotted the muzzle flashes of the enemy from a nearby street. He pointed his MP-44 and aimlessly began to spray. Holding on to Schmidt for support, he scampered across the courtyard and into a small hovel. His magazine was exhausted. One look at Schmidt told him that they were both out of luck.

The gunfight escaladed quickly. The _Hauptmann's _soldiers exchanged rapid fire was the British and American soldiers, some of whom had parted and disappeared behind the buildings.

" They're going to flank us," Schmidt panted.

Berlitz realized that they were directly adjacent to one of the side alleys from which the Allies might try to attack. His fellow Germans were crouched in a manner that their sides were completely exposed to this angle.

Together with Schmidt, he tried to holler a warning, but their voices were drowned out by battle. The _Hauptmann _had crawled out of the lorry and stood crouched beside it, protecting it with his own machine gun. He appeared to not be wounded.

Shadows appeared at the end of the alley. Berlitz dragged Schmidt back into the recesses of their hovel just as the enemy rounded the corner.

Wordlessly, Schmidt removed his knife from his boot and nudged Berlitz to do likewise. The younger soldier said nothing to protest this sheer insanity; he simply removed his own blade and held it at ready. Schmidt's free hand wrapped tightly around his own, squeezing his fingers in brotherly comfort. He met the man's eyes for the fleeting moment and nodded what he thought would be a final farewell.

Berlitz felt no extreme anxiety, even now, in his last moments. He prayed only that his family and his beloved Lena would not suffer so deeply for his loss. He prayed that the war might never be as cruel to them as it had been to him.

The enemy soldiers came rushing up the alley, eager and excited by their clear shots on the Germans in the _piazza_, hoping to get close enough to not blotch up their firing. They passed by the hiding spot in full force, swept by their own momentum. When they spotted the two crouched Germans, they didn't have time to even react.

All pains and thoughts vanished in that instant when Berlitz slammed into his opponent. His knife sliced into the side of the neck. With a vicious wrench, he jerked it out the front side and hurled himself onto the next man. This one dropped his gun and grabbed Berlitz's descending arm with both of his hands.

Acting only on instinct, Berlitz put his weight on his bad leg and lashed out his other into the man's groin. The soldier's grip weakened enough for the knife to shatter through his collar bone and drive down to the hilt.

Berlitz heard two rifle shots at his back and braced himself for the pain. One of the bullets grazed his hip; the other he did not feel.

Suddenly, there was struggling, and he turned to see Schmidt's thick arms wrapped around the gunman's neck from behind. He watched stupidly as the doctor slammed a palm into the man's temple over and over. After a few seconds, the soldier collapsed.

They glanced around stupidly. Five bodies lay at their feet.

Schmidt scooped up one of the Enfield rifles and wordlessly tossed another to Berlitz. The doctor then turned and walked back into the courtyard. Berlitz followed slowly, wondering when the reality would hit him.

For the moment, it did not.

The apartment door burst open, and an angry Metz came running out with Hilden on his heels. Between them scampered a thin, wiry little Italian man wearing glasses and a woolen sweater. Berlitz and Schmidt hurried to catch up to them by the truck.

" What the hell took so long?" the _Hauptmann _shouted.

" He had trouble saying goodbye to his family," Metz snarled, his burning gaze piercing the Italian.

Hilden looked absolutely furious. " Bullshit! He was waiting for the _Amis _to come. _Fickender Verräter_! Fucking traitor!"

The captain leapt into the driver's seat. " I'm going to get this truck-" a bullet shattered the front windshield "—turned around. Be ready to jump in the back!"

He threw around the gears and drove the monstrous lorry in reverse, winding around the large granite column. The other five German soldiers began to back away from their positions, laying down heavy covering fire. Berlitz and his companions did the same on a second street, where the Allies were advancing.

" _Kommen!_ Let's go!" the captain hollered.

The four of them piled into the bed, dragging down the whimpering Victor Granzoli between them. As the truck began to roll up the back street, the other Germans came bounding into the back, one-by-one. The last man to try and climb on suddenly stiffened and let go, rolling down street in a bloody heap.

Frantically, the Germans rose together and pumped out a solid spree of bullets. This beat back the Allies, who were angrily storming after the lorry and their escaping objective: Victor Granzoli.

The truck rounded a corner and passed beyond the range of the bullets, but the defenders knew that they were nowhere near safe. The ancient vehicle could only go thirty two kilometers per hour on this steep street. Running soldiers could overtake them quickly.

Some of the other Germans tossed grenades back behind them, simply as a stalling tactic. Berlitz saw that the top of the hill was approaching ahead.

They inched over the crest with bullets chasing after them. Berlitz kept waiting for one of the tires to blow out, but Fortune seemed to smile down upon them today.

Metz grabbed Victor by the lapel and shook him violently. " Why do they want you? What do you know, you little cunt bastard!"

" I know nothing!" Victor screamed, his German heavily accented. " I don't know why they want me!"

" He's lying," Hilden said through clenched teeth.

" Will they come after us?" one of the other soldiers asked the _Leutnant_.

Metz threw a glance at the hill, which was rapidly disappearing behind them. " I don't think they will catch us now. They might set up roadblocks in the city."

The other soldier shook his head. " _Nein_, we saw nothing on our way in."

" Then they might come after us with jeeps," Schmidt said. He gazed coldly at the Italian scientist, who was shivering on the floorboards. The air had become cold as the last traces of daylight vanished. The truck still had one headlight for navigation, which thankfully had not been shot out in the battle.

Metz's frown was hidden in the dark. " The question is, how badly do they want him?"


	9. Starry Night

**Chapter 9: **_Starry Night_

Darkness proved to be as useless as daylight—in terms of making a stealthy getaway. During the day, at least the lorry would have had a slight chance of blending into the Italian hillside. At night, however, with a piercing headlight cutting through black skies, it was doubtful that they could go unnoticed.

The engine groaned and rumbled over the mountainous terrain, struggling dearly with its weighted burden. The noise shattered the serenity of the night. Certainly anyone within three kilometers would hear them.

A single jeep with Americans had converged on them as they had passed through the outskirts of Florence. Swinging on the back of the jeep was a mounted machine gun, armed by a grim-faced American. They kept their distance in the dark, visible only by their headlights. It was clear that their intentions were to have the lorry pull over, but they didn't dare open fire with such poor visibility.

Ultimately, it was the Germans who lost patience and let loose a brief burst of gunfire. The jeep abruptly fell back to a half-kilometer's distance, and continued following them through the snaking mountain road.

Berlitz was watching the stars that shone from the heavens. Hunger pangs mixed with pain from his injuries to put him in a miserable state of stupor. His drowsiness did not lapse into sleep; the jostling of the truck and the cold, open air kept him awake. From his dark corner of the flatbed, he watched the silhouettes of his companions—Metz, Hilden, and Schmidt, as well as three others under the _hauptmann'_s command.

Their driver, they had learned, was named _Hauptmann _Siegfried Klauss. Klauss had been commissioned to remain behind with a band of men from the _1st Fallschirm-Panzer, _the famous Hermann GoeringDivision. These men had all seen action in Africa, as well as at Lentini during the battle for Sicily. They were the _1st Fallschirmjäger'_s equal, except they mastered in panzer warfare rather than aerial and infantry combat.

Klauss and his men had been formed into a special-operations division for missions that would require stealth and precision. Like Metz's soldiers, the men under Klauss saw no future for themselves after the war. They lived every day as if it was their last.

" I don't like this," Schmidt said, his voice hoarse over the rumble of the engine. " The _Amis _might be pushing us into a trap."

Seated across from him, Hilden stifled a yawn and said, " I don't see how that's possible. We're too far beyond their front to be seeing any resistance here."

" Then why are they still following us?" Schmidt demanded.

" Because of _him_," Hilden answered, snapping his thumb at the trembling Italian man laying between their feet.

Vittorio rolled over and looked at them wildly. " The war is over! Risking our lives at this point is foolish. I have a family to care for."

Schmidt glared at him. " Tell us why you are so special to our friends."

" That information is not for you to know," Granzoli replied.

Schmidt stared at him, his gaze piercing even in darkness. Slowly, the doctor removed his knife and began to wipe the blood from it on his shirt. The moonlight glimmered on the blade.

" See this?" Schmidt asked. " Today I killed a man with this. I slit open his neck, and then strangled one of his companions. And I felt nothing. I still feel nothing. What I'm saying, _Herr _Granzoli, is that…this war has changed me. I used to be a man who gave life, not one who stole it away. If the enemy is coming after us, I had damn better know why. Do you understand me?"

Granzoli cringed. " I'm under orders not to speak of my work. Orders from your own _Fuehrer_."

" How did the enemyknow how to find you?" Metz demanded.

" I-I don't know," Granzoli stammered. " Since I finished my work a year ago, the Nazis have had very little interest in me. The war is coming to a close; I saw no reason to flee from the Americans."

" Disgraceful lies," Hilden snarled.

" Where did you work?" Schmidt inquired.

Granzoli's voice shook slightly. " Dachau."

Surprise and curiosity overtook Schmidt's voice. " The concentration camp?"

" _Ja_," the Italian confirmed. " I performed some important biological studies there."

Although his face was hidden in shadows, Metz was studying the man closely. Very slowly, the _Leutnant_ asked, " What kind of experiments, _Herr _Granzoli?"

" I worked for Dr. Rascher and Dr. Mengele, under _Herr _Himmler," Granzoli's voice held the faintest hint of pride. " That's all you need to know."

" This is absurd!" Hilden protested. " Dachau is a camp for political re-education, not biological experiments. They send gypsies there, and Jews, and corrupt vermin who don't understand the order of the _Reich_. Dachau is no science laboratory. You lie! You continue to lie to us!"

Metz held up his arm. " That's enough, Hilden." He turned his smoldering gaze onto Granzoli. " Listen to me, Vittorio. If you've done what I think you've done, you are without shame and honor. I'd not have you speak of your work in front of my men."

" What-" Hilden began.

" You cannot imagine," Metz interrupted, gazing at Hilden. " In all these years of fighting, you cannot even begin to imagine what horrors this war has brought into our world."

" I still don't-"

Schmidt sat up abruptly. " Why are we slowing down?"

The lorry had decelerated until it slowed to a drag. Finally, the truck stopped moving altogether. The smell of oil and smoke became distinct immediately.

_Hauptmann's _Klauss's angry voice burst out of the front of the truck. " _Scheisse!_ _Fickender bauerlastwagen!"_

" What is it?" Metz asked, swinging out of the back.

" I don't know. Something must be wrong with the engine," Klauss answered. He moved to the head of the vehicle and threw back the hood, choking and cursing as a cloud of scorching smoke spilled out.

Hilden leapt from the back and joined them at the front. With only the dismal illumination of a single headlight, he could barely make out any of the engine parts. He asked for a flashlight and found out that Metz's had shattered during their struggle in the _piazza_. Klauss had none.

" I have my lighter," the _hauptmann _offered.

" No, it won't matter," Hilden said bitterly. " If one of the bullets hit the radiator or any of the major parts, the fluid might have leaked out. We're out of luck until morning."

" Our front should only be ten kilometers from here. We could walk," one of the soldiers in the rear suggested.

" _Nein_," Klauss replied. " Friedrich" –he indicated the soldier who had occupied the passenger seat—"was just on the radio with our commander. They've pulled back our lines another thirty kilometers. That's forty kilometers of walking, and in the dark."

Metz spoke dryly. " We've done worse, _Herr Hauptmann_."

" Either way, we aren't headed back to our lines just yet," Klauss said.

" We have to finish the second part of our assignment."

" Oh? And what is that, exactly?" Metz asked.

Klauss scratched his head. " Didn't your man receive the orders over the radio?"

" Only to locate and evacuate Granzoli," Hilden said. " I had to abandon the radio."

The _hauptmann _shrugged. " We are to stop at Granzoli's country villa, which is situated on this very road about twenty kilometers from Florence. In fact, by my estimation, we should be nearly there."

" We are close," Granzoli's voice admitted from the lorry's bed. " But what business does the German Army have with my private home?"

" Our orders are to ensure that all of your personal studies and all of your scientific endeavors are collected and relocated to Berlin," Klauss reported. " If that is impossible, we are to destroy everything and burn down the house."

" _Destroy everything?_" Granzoli repeated, stunned. " Are you completely insane? Throw years of research out the window?"

" Why hasn't all of this been done long before the enemy approached?" Metz demanded.

Shrugging, Klaus replied, " Your guess is as good as mine. We both know that the _Reich _has lost much of its order and discipline during the years of the war. Vittorio's name must have been buried in the confusion."

" Berlitz is badly in need of a hospital," Schmidt cut in. " Or at least some antibiotics. If infection sets in, he might die from that head wound."

" Vittorio's house is on the path back to our lines," Klauss answered. " It will take us less than half an hour"—he glared at the Italian—" with his cooperation, that is."

Granzoli waved his arms in desperation. " I'll help you get the files back to Berlin. Just promise that there will be no burning, of any sort."

" How far are we from this house?" Metz asked.

Squinting in the darkness, Granzoli took in his surroundings and nodded to himself. " In another two kilometers, we should see the driveway on the side of the road."

Klauss drew himself up. " We have no choice but to go by foot. The moon will give us enough light to see the way."

" I don't know if Berlitz can-" Hilden began.

" Then carry the damn man!" Klauss shouted. " We'll try and radio in for reinforcements in the morning, but until then, we must bite our tongues and keep pushing onwards."

Metz snapped to attention and turned back towards the truck. " You heard him. Out of the truck, all of you. Help Berlitz down."

" Should we try and push the lorry off the road?" someone asked.

" _Nein_. There's nowhere to hide it," Metz replied.

The soldiers piled out of the vehicle and lined up alongside their _hauptmann_. Weapons gleaming in the moonlight, faces grim with dirt, they waited for the order to begin moving. Schmidt slung Berlitz's arm around his soldier and helped the soldier lean on his good leg. Berlitz let his head lull, and every now and then, he muttered something indistinguishable.

" Let's go then," _Hauptmann _Klauss ordered.

The Allied jeep that had been escorting them had disappeared back for the city. Several kilometers away, a large force of Allied soldiers was pouring into Florence. Orders were given, and an assault force was drawn together and loaded onto jeeps. These would set out onto the road at the first light of dawn, in the hope of catching up to the Germans that were now traveling on foot.

All this remained unknown to the soldiers of the Germany Army. Under the guidance of the stars above, they drifted away into the darkness of Italy's hills.


	10. The Darkness Within

**Chapter 10: **_The Darkness Within_

The Granzoli villa was a sprawling expanse of flowers and marble. Large shrubs aligned the long entrance drive in a Sicilian fashion. The arches of the home itself were lit by hanging lanterns which cast shadows across the central courtyard. A gurgling fountain rose in the darkness of this cobblestone plaza. The smell of wildflowers and roses mingled in the cool air of the night. In the distance, the black figures of the hills towered under the moonlight.

" You do quite well for a man of your profession," _Hauptmann _Klauss remarked, as the soldiers trudged up the final portion of the paved road.

Granzoli nodded. " The estate has been in my family for three generations. My grandfather had it built many years ago."

They passed through an arched gateway and glanced about the courtyard. Klauss inquired if anyone else was around, to which Granzoli replied that all of the groundskeepers should have left in the evening.

" Why would you be living in a miserable hovel in Florence when you have all this?" Hilden demanded. " Who were you trying to hide from?"

Granzoli said nothing, and the question was left hanging as they entered the building. The Italian scientist hurried to turn on some of the lamps, casting a bright light on the richly furnished interior.

" Where do you keep your files?" Klauss demanded.

Pointing towards the curved marble stairs, Granzoli said, " Upstairs. In my private study."

Klauss turned to address his soldiers. " We're going to set up a watch. The two of you"—he indicated towards his own men—"will return to the entrance of the property. Take the radio with you. I expect to be notified at the sight of any approaching vehicles."

" _Jawohl_," the men said, although not with too much enthusiasm. The prospect of spending the night outside in the chilling air was none too appealing to them, but by no means was it their worst endeavor of the war.

They exited together through the front door.

The _hauptmann _then dismissed his remaining two soldiers to a post on the wall of the courtyard. Klauss turned towards Metz and said, " Have your men get some rest, _Herr Leutnant_. You can come with me to finish this business upstairs."

Metz snapped to the affirmative and ordered Schmidt and Hilden to help Berlitz into one of the guest rooms.  
" Have you any medicine? Some antibiotics?" Schmidt asked Granzoli.

" And how about something to eat," Hilden added.

" Down this hallway, you'll find the kitchen on your left. We keep all our medical supplies in a cabinet beside the refrigerator," Granzoli replied. He turned to Klauss and said, " Wouldn't your men like anything to eat, _Herr Hauptmann?_"

Klauss scowled. " They will eat when they are relieved of their posts. Now take us to your study, so that we may finish this damnable task."

The two officers followed Granzoli to the stairs. Halfway up, Metz turned towards Hilden and told him, " Find a radio and contact our headquarters. We'll need a vehicle escort back to our lines at the first light of dawn."

" _Jawohl,_" Hilden replied.

As soon as the other soldiers disappeared onto the second floor, Schmidt began moving towards the kitchen, Hilden and Berlitz tagging behind. The doctor ordered Berlitz to be sat down at the table, while he and Hilden moved about and flicked on the lamps. Schmidt then headed towards the sink and turned on the faucet, washing away the dirt from his hands and the sleep from his eyes. After drying himself off, he opened the medical cabinet and began rummaging through.

He reappeared holding two bottles. " Here we are, then. Some more penicillin and a sedative. What you need most right now, my dear Berlitz, is a bit of rest. You must get pressure off that bad leg, in any case."

" Leave the sedative, _Opa_," Berlitz replied. " Not till we're back behind our own lines."

Hilden began to laugh. " What are you so worried about, Berlitz? The _Amis _won't come hunting for us until daylight. And I think you've seen enough action for one day."

" No," Berlitz answered. " If they want Granzoli, they might come here. Even now."

" Hilden, fetch me a pail with clean water and soap," Schmidt instructed. " And some fresh bandages."

While the soldier went searching for the materials, Schmidt gingerly unwrapped Berlitz's dressings and began probing at the head wound cautiously. Berlitz flinched at the slightest touch.

Even with watering eyes, Berlitz couldn't help but wonder at Schmidt's gentleness. Images of the brutality at _Trinitia_ flashed through his head. He remembered Schmidt, covered with blood, strangling the life out of an enemy soldier. Was it possible that such a violent animal of destruction could possess the humane touch of a doctor, even now?

Schmidt's wrinkled face was scrunched in concentration, trying to make out the infected wound in the dim light. When he spoke, it was almost absent-mindedly. "You'll need two weeks of recovery for the head, at the very least. More for the leg, probably. It's a miracle that you didn't have a concussion. Things could have ended up very badly for you, and for all of us."

" Haven't they already?" Berlitz asked, quietly. " What about Merhoff, and Kiehler, and Hamman?"

Schmidt spoke solemnly. " I have no intention of surviving this war. I do not feel it is justified that I should go on living when so many others have died. But I will stand my ground until Death comes to my door. Because, in the end, that is all that we can do."

" And if we do survive?" Berlitz asked. " If Germany surrenders, and the war is over, what will become of us?"

Schmidt shrugged. " My fate is waiting at the end of a gun. If the enemy does not pull the trigger, I will."

" I found soap and bandages," Hilden's voice drifted in from the hallway. "I'm going to make us some sandwiches. The bastard had better keep some decent food around here. Some good ham, maybe. And wine. And…"

Schmidt sighed and turned back to Berlitz. " Alright, _Gefreiter_, let's try and clean you up."

Metz stood rigidly next to Klauss, watching the wiry Italian scientist remove a crate of files from a large safe in his office. These he hauled onto his titanic mahogany desk with a grunt.

" The results of years of work," Granzoli said, his arms protectively wrapped around the crate.

" Would you mind if I had a look?" _Hauptmann _Klauss demanded.

" I already told you, that is not possible," Granzoli replied. " I do not mean to insult your intelligence, _Herr _Klauss, but I doubt that you would understand very much of what is in these files. Advanced genetics, human anatomy-"

" Topics which I have studied while in the _gymnasium_," Klauss retorted, angrily. " I am not a stupid man, _Herr _Granzoli."

Klauss reached for the crate and tried to pull it away, but Granzoli clamped on tightly. A quick and wordless wrestle ensued, both men exerting themselves physically to pry away the files. Finally, Klauss ripped it away from Granzoli's hands; papers and photos went flying out across the room.

" _My work!"_ the scientist screamed.

Klauss yanked out his Lugar and pointed it at the man, hissing through his teeth, "Don't _test_ _me_, you meddlesome idiot. Another word and I will kill you where you stand."

Falling silent, Granzoli watched as Metz bent over and began retrieving the papers. The _Leutnant _paused, gazing at one of the photographs. Slowly, he rose and crumbled it in his palm. The Italian let out a faint cry of rage, but Metz's fiery glare struck him silent.

" You disgust me," Metz growled. With that, he turned on his heels and walked towards the door.

" I didn't expect someone like _you_ to understand," Granzoli snapped, his voice condescending and seething with anger.

Metz froze. He wheeled around and stormed back to the desk, roaring, " What? What is there to understand, you murdering son of a bitch? The people at _Dachau _and _Auschwitz _have had enough to suffer through without your godless science. How can you justify your crimes?"

" They're only filthy Jews and convicts," Granzoli replied. " _Abschaum_. Scum. At least now they're giving back something useful to society."

During this brief exchange of words, Klauss had ventured over to the crumpled picture and unfurled it. Frowning, he asked, " What is the purpose of those vats of water?"

" Hypothermic experimentation," Granzoli answered indignantly. " I do not have to be the one to remind you of the brutality of the Russian winters. Our young soldiers were being sent back by the thousands with cases of severe frostbite and pneumonia. Dr. Rascher suggested that we experiment with methods of resuscitation and shock treatment from extreme cold."

" And you did this on the prisoners?" Klauss asked tersely.

Granzoli blinked. " Well, yes. There was quite a bit of alarm over the news of our pilots being shot down in the Arctic regions. Our purposes were to first determine the length of time required for a loss of consciousness, when submerged in ice water. Dr. Lutz, if you are familiar with the name, believed that the heart could be stimulated back to its full potential at any point above13 degrees Celsius. Our tests on the prisoners revealed that death occurs between the core temperatures of 24.2 degrees Celsius and-"

" I don't care, damn you!" Metz shouted.

Klauss scraped up another paper from the floor and glanced at it. " Where does Dr. Mengele tie into all of this?"

Before Granzoli could begin speaking, Metz cut him off, his voice dripping with venom. "Another monstrous creation of our government. They're calling him 'The Angel of Death' in the underground of Berlin. I've read stories about his mutilations and his experiments with the twins at Auschwitz."

" Mutilations?" Granzoli stammered. " _Herr Leutnant_, surely you do not buy in to the enemy's propaganda. _Doktor _Mengele is only attempting to carry on the wishes of the _Fuehrer_. Genetic manipulating a new master race. Think of the beauty and perfection that can come from this science."

" There's nothing beautiful about what is being done to those people," Metz answered. " I would not wish that fate upon any one of my enemies."

He turned again to leave, but Granzoli's voice stopped him once more.

" Come now," Granzoli said. " There is no need to be so dramatic. As a soldier, death is nothing new to you."

Metz paused at the door. " Death is something I've come to accept as a part of my fate. But do not even presume to tell me that killing men on the battlefield can be compared to the torture of young women and children. If you are at all familiar with the concept of a soldier's honor, you will see that we have nothing in common."

Granzoli dismissed this with scorn. " Self-righteous justification. Are you trying to preach morals to me, _Herr Leutnant_? Well, in that case, murder is murder."

Glaring over his shoulder, Metz said, " I have no regrets. That much you can never say."

He shut the door and went out.


	11. A Soldier's Honor

**Chapter 11: **_A Soldier's Honor_

_Gefreiter _Berlitz was dozing lightly when Hilden burst into kitchen, flustered and armed with his rifle.

" _Amis!_" Hilden shouted. " Four dozen, at least. They're coming up the road in trucks. Our sentries sent in the message by radio."

Schmidt sprang to his feet and grabbed the soldier by the arm. " What time is it?"  
" Nearly six. Dawn is breaking," Hilden replied.

Groggily, Berlitz sat up and asked, " When are our reinforcements scheduled to come?"

" Any time now," Hilden said. " Get up and get your rifle. The enemy has no artillery or heavy support. We're going to hold them off from the courtyard."

Schmidt helped Berlitz to his feet and out of the room, hobbling down the long hallway. The doctor let out a streamline of curses. " Damn this war. Damn our luck. _Damn that man_!"

As if on cue, _Leutnant _Metz burst out of another room, marching sternly towards the stairs. Directly behind him, pleading and whining, was Vittorio Granzoli.

" Wait! For the love of God, in the name of the _Fuehrer_, don't do this to me," Granzoli begged. "Our reinforcements are coming. Please, _Leutnant_, you cannot destroy my life's work. Everything I've done will have been in vain." He paused. " All of those prisoners will have died in vain."

Metz spun around and cracked the man across the face, shattering his glasses against the wall. " That was your ticket to safety, wasn't it? The _Amis _promised you amnesty in return for your research? Is that why you hid like a dog in Florence?"The soldier spat out each word with rage.

At the head of the stairs, Klauss appeared in full combat uniform, his MP-44 held at ready. The _hauptmann_ took one glance at the scene below him and bellowed, " Get to the courtyard. We have no time for this."

" But my work…" Granzoli began.

" Will be burned," Klauss answered. " That's the end of this discussion. _Leutnant _Metz, I want you to personally ensure that those files do not fall into the enemy's hands, if they break into the house."

Metz snapped a salute. " _Jawohl!_"

Descending quickly, Klauss said, " They'll be here any moment. Take up positions in the windows and on the wings of the courtyard. Two of my men will be defending the rear entrance. The fallback position is the head of these stairs."

They dispersed in every direction, hurrying to find a window from which they could fire out onto the central courtyard. Before leaving the main hallway, Hilden cuffed Granzoli around the neck and said, " You're coming with me. They will be no deserters today."

Berlitz and Schmidt found themselves in a dining room on the first floor of the house. From their vantage point, they could cover the main courtyard, as well as the entire left side of the villa. With only a patch of trees two hundred meters away for cover, the enemy would have a difficult time assaulting this position.

The forward soldiers, deployed in the left and right wings of the courtyard, opened fire at the Allied vehicles that came clonking down the road. Caught by surprise, the enemies veered off the side of the road and immediately dispersed for cover. Several volleys were exchanged with the courtyard defenders, but with over two hundred meters of ground separating them, this proved to be a useless tactic. No one could be accurate at that distance.

The Allied soldiers proved to be remarkably aggressive. They broke into organized teams—two dozen soldiers moving off to flank both sides of the house; two dozen remained to assault the front courtyard.

Machine guns could be heard rattling from somewhere in the house. Either Metz or Hilden were taking shots at the flanking enemies.

Schmidt glanced out the side window. " Shit. They're using the trees. They'll be at the back of the house in three minutes."

Berlitz had diverted his attention back to the main road, where the enemy was busily lobbing canisters of smoke in front of the defenders' windows. Within a minute, a billowing screen of gray smoke enveloped the courtyard.

" They know what they're doing," Berlitz said.

Suddenly, the windowpane in front of Schmidt shattered into a hundred pieces. The doctor fell prone, cursing and covering his head. Blood dripped down from his leg and a grazed part of his cheek.

From under his arm, Berlitz called, " _Opa_?"

" I'm fine," Schmidt grunted.

Sporadic fire came from the rear of the house, where Klauss had two men positioned. From the courtyard, the explosion of a grenade shook the house. The fighting escaladed rapidly.

Berlitz stuck up his head next to the broken window. A dark figure was racing through the smoke towards the fountain. The uniform he wore was not German.

Raising his rifle, Berlitz squeezed off three rounds. The runner staggered back against the edge of the fountain in a daze, and from the skies above, a hail of bullets sent him tumbling over the ledge with a splash.

Another explosion ripped away a portion of the west courtyard wing, silencing the two Germans embedded there. Soldiers came rushing into the courtyard in greater numbers. Concentrated fire was pressed on the dining room window, forcing Berlitz and Schmidt to keep low. The furniture in the room around them exploded into fragments.

Schmidt grabbed him by the arm. " I hear them at back entrance. Come on."

" What about the front?" Berlitz demanded.

" Metz and Hilden are watching it from upstairs," Schmidt replied.

Throwing another glance out into the courtyard, Berlitz nodded. " Alright, let's go then."

In a crouched stagger, he followed Schmidt out of the dining room and into the entrance hallway, ignoring the merciless pain in his knee. The kitchen door flew open, and one of Klauss's men backed into the hall, his gun cocked and ready.

" They're inside!" he shouted.

Bullets ripped through the walls and the swinging door. The soldier shook violently and smashed against a porcelain vase. Schmidt fell to the ground, roaring, "_Damn!_"

His hand on the trigger, Berlitz fired wildly back towards the kitchen. More holes appeared in the wall. Wooden fragments exploded into shrapnel all around him. He felt the sting of glass as the mirror behind him blasted apart.

Eyes squinted, teeth barred against the pain, he grabbed Schmidt underneath the shoulder and dragged him backwards, towards the stairs. The doctor used one leg to push himself back; the other hung rigidly out in front of him.

Hilden came flying down the stairs, rushing over to Berlitz and shouting, " Klauss is dead! We're falling back!"

Another soldier came rushing down the corridor from the eastern wing of the courtyard. Before he could round the corner to safety, a fusillade cut into his side, launching him savagely into a stone wall.

Together with Hilden, Berlitz dragged Schmidt backwards up the stairs. They made it halfway when the main door blew wide open, and almost simultaneously, the hallway exploded into a hailstorm of bullets.

" Jesus-" Hilden's head snapped back against the stairs, before he could even lift his weapon.

Berlitz felt his legs buckle beneath him. Instinctively, he raised his rifle and fired four shots. A sharp pressure cracked into his left shoulder, and the gun fell from his arms. He was hardly aware of his own loud sobbing.

A machine gun spat out several rounds from the head of the stairs, joined by another. The enemies at the front door fell back as the vicious counterattack tore apart the wall. The chandelier came smashing down in the middle of the hall.

" Berlitz?" Metz's voice came from nearby. A hand slid under his good arm and began to pull tug him backwards.

" Come on!" the _Leutnant _exclaimed. " Move your legs, damn you!"

Choking on the grimy air, Berlitz planted his right foot on the stairs and began to push off as hard as he could. He continued to do this mindlessly, over and over, until suddenly the ground leveled off beneath him.

Metz dropped him there and raced back down the stairs.

Rolling onto his stomach, Berlitz used all of his energy to prop himself up and crawl forward to the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another of Klauss's soldiers leaning over the railing, spraying bullets from an MP-44. Ahead of him, Metz was struggling back up with Schmidt.

Hilden lay sprawled out and motionless on the steps, his head oozing blood onto the white marble.

One of the doors adjacent to the entrance hall flew open, and a soldier moved into the light. He trained his weapon on Metz, but the _Leutnant _beat him to it. Dropping Schmidt, Metz flicked out his Lugar and put three rounds into the soldier's heart.

Wracked with tears and pain, Berlitz reached out and helped yank Schmidt up the remained of the steps. The doctor had his rifle still in hand, and he was fumbling to reload the clip.

" This is madness!" Granzoli shrieked from behind them. " I won't die here like a goddamn dog. _Leutnant_, you must surrender! _Leutnant_, did you hear what-"

Metz wheeled away from the stairs, clutching his left side with his hand.

" Metz!" Berlitz screamed.

" _Gefreiter_, listen to me!" Metz bellowed. " We have to burn the files. Get to the study and burn the damn files."

" We're going to be slaughtered!" Granzoli's voice broke in panic. " Use your head, _Leutnant_! The war is over! My family, oh my children…"

Metz reached into his uniform and withdrew an envelope in his bloody fist. He grabbed Granzoli by the collar and said, " Vittorio, if you can do one thing to atone for your sins, then do this. Hide yourself in a closet until the fighting stops. You'll surrender to the _Amis_. Vittorio—look at me!" he grabbed the Italian by the chin and locked eyes with him. " Whatever you do, make sure that this letter reaches _Frau Merhoff._ Do you understand? I wrote the address on the front."

Shakily, Granzoli snatched the letter and buried it in his shirt. He nodded, quibbling, " I'll do it, _Leutnant_."

Klauss's soldier staggered back from the edge of the stairs, blood pouring from his chest. With one final, gargled breath, he crumbled to the ground.

" Find somewhere to hide," Metz told Granzoli. The Italian disappeared into one of the nearby rooms.

Berlitz appeared, wavering on his feet, beside Metz. " _Leutnant_, where's the—"

The world exploded into thunder and fire. All the breath was knocked out of both men as a torrent of heat swept over them. Horrendous ringing filled their ears.

Metz crawled to his feet and wrapped an arm around Berlitz, forcing him down the hall. Turning around, he saw Schmidt leaning up against a wall, rifle propped in his hands. The doctor cocked his bloody head at the _Leutnant_ and nodded once, slowly. Then, weapon at ready, Schmidt lurched to the top of the stairs. He fired once before a wave of bullets tore the gun from his grip and sent him trembling to the ground.

There he remained, stilled forever.

One step at a time, as quickly as possible, Metz and Berlitz traversed the length of the hall. Just as soldiers appeared at the head of the main stairs, they barreled into Granzoli's office. Metz rapidly shut and locked the doors, sliding the deadbolt into place.

Berlitz towered over the desk, ripping files from the crate and torching them. The first he started with a lighter. Once he had four sheets burning, he stuffed them back into the main pile and stood back. The papers caught fire instantly.

" It's done then," Metz said.

All of the energy drained from Berlitz's legs. He fell down alongside the desk, knowing very well that he would never stand up again.

Licking his lips, trying to ignore his throbbing shoulder, he looked at Metz and said, " I have no weapon."

The _Leutnant _himself stood pressed against the back of a reading chair, his hand wrapped around his Lugar. He smiled tiredly at Berlitz. " It doesn't matter very much, _Gefreiter_. The war is over for us."  
Footsteps could be heard rushing down the hallway, kicking open doors. Orders were exchanged in English outside.

Berlitz swallowed hard, trying to control his breathing and his tears. " I've wanted to thank you for a long time, _Leutnant._ It's been my greatest honor to serve with you and the men of the _1st Fallschirmjäger_."

Something thudded against the door. More voices, directly outside the office.

Gazing at him, Metz said, " Be strong, Berlitz. Honor is all a soldier can ever have. In life, and in death."

A short burst of fire blew out the lock and the deadbolt from the door.

Metz raised his pistol, murmuring, " Now we have earned our peace."


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

When _Frau_ Merhoff opened the tattered, blood-stained envelope, her hands were trembling violently. The Iron Cross spilled out onto her palm, and she felt the tears rolling down her cheek. With stifled sobs, she unfolded the single leaf of paper from within and began to read the rigid, soldier-like writing.

_Frau Merhoff,_

_It is with the deepest grief that I am writing this letter. Your husband has died in the field of combat. His last words were orders to defend, to stay and fight—words that are worthy of any fine soldier. I can only hope, when my time comes, that I can die with the same courage that Jonas lived with._

_Death is a natural part of life, whether there is war or peace. You cannot blame this war for your loss, nor the enemy for your grief. The decision Jonas made to serve his country came with a risk, and he knew only to well the dark fate of a soldier. To have the courage to take such a gamble reveals an uncontrollable fact of nature—a man will die to protect his home and his family._

_In the past six years, a lesson has been taught to all of Mankind, a lesson paid for in blood. Soldiers sacrifice everything today so that their people can enjoy tomorrow. Even now, I am sitting at a desk in a home outside Florence, wondering if we will live to see the light of tomorrow, or if this letter will ever find its way to your hands._

_All men fear death, Frau Merhoff, but not all men value life. As a soldier, I have come to enjoy every minute of life—every meal, every breath of air, every word, every new day. War cannot teach men how to die, but it can teach them how to live. _

_It has been my greatest honor to serve under Jonas Merhoff. I pray that God grants your husband the thing I have come to long for most—peace._

_Leutnant Jaguer Metz,_

_1st Fallschirmjäger Division_


End file.
